


who you gonna call?

by orphan_account



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King, Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Aged-Up Characters, Billy Hargrove Will Not Die, Bisexual Beverly Marsh, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Borderline Personality Disorder, Child Abuse, Crisis of Faith, Crossover, Depression, Drug Use, El with Empathy Powers, Established Relationship, Exploring Sexuality, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Gay Eleven | Jane Hopper, Gay Mike Wheeler, Gay Stanley Uris, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, Looking Canon Dead In The Eye Before You Murder It, M/M, Mike is Richie’s cousin, Multi, Orphan Richie, Period Typical Homophobia, Post Season/Series 02, Richie Tozier is a Disaster, Season 03 Spoilers, Self-Harm, Stan doesn’t know how to love properly, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, The Losers Club, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, fuck buddies, i kind of wish i could be nicer to my boys, im so sorry bill, im so sorry stanley, richie is a bad influence, self-destructive behaviour, they’re all like 17 in this, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-08-10 08:22:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 60,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20132335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Richie hated Hawkins, Indiana the moment he set eyes on it. There was something off about it, something that wasn't quite right, an undercurrent of darkness he wished he could've stayed blind to.”Richie Tozier has two dead parents, which means he can finally get the hell out of Derry. Just shy of seventeen, he’s sent to Hawkins Indiana, the shithole town his aunt and uncle have lived in for the past twenty-five years. Something is wrong with the town itself, and his strange cousin Mike knows exactly what that something is. Richie is cold now, like his little friend Will, his memories aren’t fading, and Mike’s girlfriend has unexplainable psychic powers.With scars that won’t heal (literally), it feels like IT is sucking the life out of every member of The Losers Club, one cut at a time. IT is coming back, and IT followed Richie to Hawkins to do it.





	1. richie tozier is an asshole

**Author's Note:**

> The scars that are all over the Losers isn’t cannon but it is plot relevant for this fic. Don’t bully me. 
> 
> The song for the chapter is Dead End Justice by The Runaways.

Richie hated Hawkins, Indiana the moment he set eyes on it. There was something off about it, something that wasn't quite right, an undercurrent of darkness he wished he could've stayed blind to. The social worker, Heather, is quiet. Trying to be a calming presence, despite Richie's endless rambling. He wished he knew how to stop it, the words that pour out of him, but with two dead parents, who would teach him any different?

Karen Wheeler, apparently.

He stood on the front step, Heather helping him carry his box of records, and all of his beautiful things. The priceless things he decided not to leave in the big empty house in Derry. He had a duffle bag of clothes, and a pack of cigarettes in his back pocket.

He knocked on the door.

It opened instantly, a very clean house greeting him, along with the smiling face of his very distant Aunt. He hadn't seen her in years, not since he was around five years old, before his dad kicked it and his mom started drinking, started giving him slaps for being too loud, then for being disrespectful, then for opening his mouth at all. He didn't mind the hits, at least that meant she had to look at him.

But she was gone now, and Karen Wheeler had sharp eyes and even sharper tongue, quick like his mom used to be.

"Richard, it's been ages since I last saw you, I had no idea you got so tall!" He was towering over her, with a new scars all over, still bright red, even thought they should have healed a long time ago. The scars from that summer had never faded, they were still pink and fresh looking. Maybe that was the curse _IT_ left them with. Shitty scar tissue. "What happened to you?" She lightly touched the bridge of his nose, where Bev had broken it, mostly healed, just a little bruised, but that feather-light touch still made him uncomfortable. He jerked back.

"Nothing happened, Aunty, it was a gift."

_"I'm gonna miss you, Molly Ringwald." She grinned, folding her hand into a fist. _

_"A parting gift to remember me by, asshole. Lights out!" _

"A... gift?" He grinned, taking a Polaroid out of his pocket. Him and Bevy, flattened dramatically against the wall at the train station, holding up their matching hands, red slashes in their palms jagged and ugly. Bevy had bruised knuckles on the free hand, which was cupping his jaw. He was grinning like an idiot in it, his teeth full of blood. _I'm gonna miss you, Trashmouth_. A heart scrawled in each corner, a cherry red lip sick strain in the centre. She had a cigarette on her lips, and fire in her eyes.

"I still disapprove of your little tradition." The social worker said from behind him. "But, she seemed like a sweet girl when she wasn't trying to knock your lights out."

"My Bevvy isn't sweet, Heather," He ignored her insistence to call her Mrs. Pollester. "She's a bitch, and she knows it. How could she be anything else in fucking Derry, Maine? That town is almost as pathetic as this one."

"Richard, just to establish this from the beginning, your uncle Ted doesn't tolerate swearing. So get it out of your system outside the house, please." He quirked an eyebrow, a smile curling his lips, private. He was going to have fun in this shithole town, even if it was just fucking with his perfect Aunt and Uncle.

"Oh, of course Aunty Karen, I would _never_ break house rules. Don't you worry. I'll keep my mouth shut tight." He knew he was laying it on thick, but Karen smiled wide and gestured for Heather to come in.

"Micheal! Nancy! Your cousin is here, come help him with his things!" Two people, two different walking patterns, Micheal barrelled down the stairs like a moron, Nancy was delicate and precise.

"Richard, this is my son, Micheal." It was Richie, but, before that summer, when he didn't have scars wrapping around him, and his nose was less crooked.

"It's Richie."

"Hmm?" Karen looked at him with tired eyes.

"My name isn't Richard, it's Richie." The other boy grabbed his hand, immediately stiffening.

"My name isn't Micheal, it's Mike, so I guess we both needed new introductions." Too casual, like he didn't notice something was wrong. They shook hands, and Mike's felt like fire. The kid was good at hiding things.

"This is my daughter, Nancy, Nancy, this is Richie." He did a two finger salute, not even reaching for her. He knew he was always cold now, here in sunny Indiana. He had seen goosebumps raise all the way up Mike's arm, felt himself get colder the closer they got to Hawkins. Mike had something in him, him and Nancy, like Richie did. Something dark and knowing.

There was definitely something wrong with this town.

"Help him with his things, Nancy, go get the rest from the car-"

"This is it. This is everything, Aunt Karen." The green duffel bag, duct taped together, a cardboard box of records and little treasures. "That's for the offer, but I think I can manage this myself." Karen looked a little sad, which he despised on a visceral, instinctive level. He hated pity, he'd had enough of it in Derry when people realized the bruises weren't from any of the other boys, they had darker spots where his moms wedding ring was. He was done with pity.

"Well, Micheal, take the box and show him to his room." He spun and gave Heather a hug, enjoying her faint discomfort.

"Thanks, Heather."

"Once again, it's Mrs. Pollester, Richie." She winked. "I'll check in soon, I don't want to hear about anymore fights, or stealing, or any of the bullshit you did at the Wayfaite's residence." She shut the door behind her, ignoring his grimace. He had only gotten into three fights at his temporary foster home, it wasn't like he was being a complete idiot. He had stolen a few things, sure, but he had only been caught once, and he ran so fast they didn't catch him. They wouldn't have known it was him if Mrs. Wayfaite hadn't been a fucking snitch.

Mike picked up the box of treasures, leading him down the hallway to a plain, perfectly clean guest bedroom. It smelled like lemon soap and bleach.

"Would you mind getting me some thumbtacks?" He asked without looking at him, unpacking his single box in the quiet bedroom. His room. His room back home had been carpeted in laundry, with a burnt out light and records littered though out. Here, he had ten. All Bowie and Queen. He set them on the vanity, taking out the envelope of pictures the Losers Club had gotten developed for him when he left, the envelope marked by Eddie, in a ridiculous, blood red pen. _WELCOME TO THE LOSERS CLUB, ASSHOLE!_

It was all of them at the Barrens in some. Beverly her underwear pretending to make eyes at him, Eddie with his stupid cast, loVer, Ben, shirtless, that H in his stomach a permanent reminder of that summer. They all had reminders of that summer.

The scars on his friends were sometimes worse than the ones he had escaped with. One picture was all of their slashed palms, a Polaroid.

_Promise_. It said, in Richie's messy scrawl.

A letter was buried in the bottom, folded tiny.

_Richie_,

_YOU ASSHOLE why did your bitch mom have to kick it? This was supposed to be our summer, without IT ruining our shit! _

_We're coming to see you on August 1st. _

_We're staying for two weeks, unless our parents flip, because none of them fucking know!!! _

"You idiots," Richie sighed, unable to stop the smile spreading across his lips.

_Especially not Ed's mom. I know you just made a joke about her pussy, and I already miss you so much I don't even care. Don't let the Wheelers get you down, operation Richie Rescue is underway as we speak. _

_I love you, Trashmouth_

_-Bevvy_

He could tell the letter was going to make him get sappy, so he tossed it on the bed and started sorting the pictures properly.

Stan in his perfect sweaters, his yarmulke covering some of his pretty curls, in one pile. Bill and his impossibly adorable smile in another, all of the Losers got a pile, the letter unfolded in the centre. Someone cleared their throat behind him.

"You need help pinning them?" Richie swallowed, nodding. Mike tossed the box of shiny red thumb tacks on the bed, picking up the letter absently.

"Why do they call you Trashmouth?" Richie shrugged, feigning ignorance.

"How the in the goddamn fuck would I know?" He reached for Bill's stack first, pinning one of him smiling in the Quarry water, he flipped it, and realized they had all written something on the back, of each and every picture.

_"to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die" You're the best friend I've ever had. So strong and brave it's hard to believe you even put up with me. I'm gonna miss you, rich. So much. _

He pinned it, reaching for one of Stan's. Sitting at the edge of the water, in profile, his face tilted toward Beverly in the background ever so slightly, his honey coloured eyes caught in the sunlight. He had yellow eyes, but they were still somehow so fucking cold, Richie's heart ached dully in his chest.

"_Blackbird singing in the dead of night / Take these broken wings and learn to fly" you're seriously the best thing that's ever happened to me. I love you, Richie. I know this is a shitty time to say it but I do, I'm glad you're safe now, but god, am I ever gonna miss you. I always miss you. Even when you're in the same town. Even when you're a bike ride away. I love you._

Beverly, perched on the end of a playground slide in a white bra and jeans, with him beside her, blowing cigarette smoke toward the sky. They were wearing matching red lipstick.

"_hiding the tears in my eyes cause boys don't cry" you're an asshole for leaving me, tozier. just when you were starting to get less unbearable. _

He loved them so much it hurt.

"They wrote on all of them." He said dumbly, a smile twitching at his lips. "Every single one."

_i don't have a song quote for you, but i do have spider-man. "with great power comes great responsibility". use that light you kept after IT for good, richie. try not be be miserable alone. _

Ben. His arms stretched toward the sky, the H cut into his skin, scratches and scrapes from the sewers still vivid. They would never heal. None of them. But Ben looked happy. He looked soft and warm, and Richie wished he could just reach through the page and-

It fluttered out of his grip, the deep cuts on his fingertips, the blood. He still had every mark from when he had reached through the page. He could feel his entire face go white.

"They're all talking about some _IT_ thing, what is that?" Mike asked, picking up the one of Ben that had fallen from his grip.

"_IT_ is the reason all of us are all nice and carved up." Mike's eyes went wide, touching the worst of them, touching a picture of Eddie, with his entire back scraped up, his face covered in tiny scars and big ones from falling through that stupid floor. The cast on his arm, they couldn't figure out why it was taking so long to heal.

loVer.

Richie turned it over, and almost immediately started laughing.

_"Well, she sure knows how to use me_

_Pretty little black-eyed Suzie_

_Playing hooky with my heart all the time." That quote has fucking NOTHING to do with you, I just know you need to listen to some more elton john because if you don't I'm NOT LETTING YOU RENEW YOUR QUEER LICENCE, JACKASS. I'll miss you. I guess. Be careful. Listen to mellow, it makes me think of your hopeless crush on Uris_. 

"Who is Uris?" Richie's eyes snapped up, Mike looked sheepish. "It's just-"

"No, it's alright." He sat on the bed, holding that picture of Eddie. Rooting through for a good one of Stan. Not that there could ever be a bad picture of him, but there were some really good ones in there. He settled on one where his cheeks were all pink, his yarmulke crooked, a bottle of white rum Richie had stolen clutched in his fist. With his free hand he was giving the camera the finger. It was a nice contrast to his perfectly pressed trousers.

Scrawled on the back was a quote that almost made him melt on the spot.

_"there's such a sad love / deep in your eyes / a kind of pale jewel / open and closed within your eyes / i’ll place the sky / within your eyes" i hope you know you're the reason a rabbi's son is going to hell. it's gonna be so peaceful here without you, i don't think i'll know what to do with myself. don't forget about me, richie. i don't know who i am without you_.

"This is Stanley Uris." Mike looked sad, examining the other pictures. Stan, hiding in a cup of coffee, laughing in the Quarry with long, cutting scars all over his arms and legs, some sloppily stitched back together, sitting on his jacket on the ground, eyes all cold and hard. He was so pretty when he was angry. More pretty when he was happy.

"I'm sorry, Richie." He smiled, all wolffish, and Mike looked confused.

"It's easier now that I don't have to see him everyday. Don't worry about me, Mikey."

-

"Get out of bed, Richie, you have to go out with Mike and his idiot friends." Nancy stood in the doorway, icy eyes hard. She didn't like him.

"I'm up, why do I have to go with them? Mike isn't exactly buddy-buddy with me-" A lie, but Nancy didn't know it. They had stayed up til the wee hours last night talking about everything in the world while she snuck out the window to her boyfriend's house.

"Because, mom said so. Get dressed." Richie groaned, rubbing at his eyes. He had fallen asleep with his glasses on, somehow. They were smudged to shit, the pictures of his friends smiled down on him from the wall above his bed. He and Mike had managed to get his belongings sorted, scattering them around the room made it feel a bit less like a guest room. All of his clothes were still in his duffle bag, he hadn't bothered putting them away.

He sat up, wiping his specs and rifling through his bag. He kept on the same, dirty jeans he had slept in, but switched into a different tank top, layered under his most obnoxious Hawaiian shirt, a bright red one with blue flowers. He tried to comb through his hair with his fingers, and gave up when he realized that no one would notice his hair when he had a broken nose.

He looked like shit, exhausted, skinny and a little shaky. He had been twitchier since IT, jumpy, almost. He flinched when the door swung open.

"Are you ready?" Richie didn't even look at Mike, grabbing the box of cigarettes off his nightstand and shoving them into his pocket, his lighter finding its home in his hand. He liked to fidget with it.

"Let's go," He studied Mike, uncharacteristically quiet. There was something about this place that just felt like it was draining him, like the town was a living entity, sucking away his life force. He wanted to ask about it, because Mike knew, he knew something deep and vital about this place, but his cousin was a distant stranger. Not someone Richie would ever consider telling about that summer "_Here's where all my face scars come from! This is the sewer we fought it in, we still don't know if IT's actually dead either so watch your step!_" He didn't expect Mike to spill any secrets, but if he knew, his friends probably did too.

"We have a bike you can use, it's Nancy's old one, she doesn't ride it anymore since she can drive now, but-" Richie grinned when he saw it.

Pink. With a white little basket and an adorable ribbon tied around the handlebars. It was perfect.

"Holy shit! This is awesome." Mike rolled his eyes, grabbing a plain, black bike from the garage.

"Somehow, I knew you would like it the second I saw that shirt." Richie adjusted the seat, since he was significantly taller than Nancy, and Mike for that matter.

"Where are we headed?"

"The arcade." Richie's smile melted.

"You hang out at the arcade? I don't think I've ever even touched a video game." He lied, ignoring Mike’s frown.

"What do you do with your friends?" Richie took out his smokes, lighting one and gesturing for Mike to lead the way.

"Mostly just do dumb shit, like get in rock wars with assholes," _Die, fuckers!_ Stan had screamed, slamming Belch in the head. "Fuck around in the Quarry, listen to music and shit like that. My friend Mike, not you, Wheeler. You're not my friend. He just got a car, so we went on a road trip as a group. Not a far one, but far enough our parents couldn't fuck everything up." He took a long drag, offering to Mike, who shook his head. "Or we see movies, at the Aladdin, and hang out at the Barrens. I don't think Derry even has an arcade."

"Well, welcome to Hawkins." Richie stopped in front of the little building. "Where we have basically nothing _but_ the arcade." They locked up their bikes, going inside to look for Mike's friends. It was oppressive, and dark, and it smelled like cherry bubblegum.

"This place really is a shithole, isn't it?" Richie put out his cigarette on the doorframe, ignoring the way Mike winced.

"Mike!" A girl, pale, with curly brown hair was standing at Street Fighter, with a boy. He was skinny, with dark brown skin and a loud voice.

"Mike's here?" The boy asked. "About damn time, what was taking you so long, Wheeler?" He didn't even look up from the game.

"El, Lucas, this is my cousin Richie. He's living with us now." The girl, El, grabbed his hand and shook it, her eyes going wide.

"Cold." She whispered and he felt his heart stutter in his chest. He ripped his hand out of her grip. "Hurting." A hand, warm touch, ghosting over the cut next to his eye that hadn't healed.

"I'm always cold now, sweetheart." He smiled, keeping his hands to himself. "Your name is El?"

"Eleven." He blinked.

"Your name is Eleven?" She nodded.

"And your name is Richie?" He laughed.

"Mike, your friends are weird as fuck."

"You said your friends have 'rock wars with assholes' for fun, and you're calling me weird? What even is a rock war?"

"It's really complex, it's like a snowball fight, but with rocks. And whoever doesn't get knocked out wins. Often a very climactic battle between opposing forces. Serious stuff." He grinned. "That's a game you don't play against friends, just enemies."

"And you have a lot of enemies? Somehow I don't think anyone would care enough about you to hate you that much." Richie swallowed a laugh.

"What, so this is bully the orphan day? What's tomorrow? Are we gonna rob a food bank?" He met Mike's eyes, they were identical to his. Chills ran down his spine. "They deserved every second of it, and worse."

"What do you-"

"Are you familiar with the history of my dear, sweet Derry, Micheal?" _Beep beep, Richie! Shut the fuck up! _

"No." _Lie to him, just a little, just enough he doesn't look. _

"Well, last summer, something happened. There were all these kids disappearing, kids in my class, kids I knew. My friend Bill lost his little brother." He swallowed. "Georgie, he was only five. It happens in cycles there, every thirty odd years, these copycat killers pop up in my town, and they start taking us. This time, it was kids I knew doing it. Pricks who got their rocks off carving their names into people, and eating them. They almost did it to my friend Ben, that's why he has that big fucking **_H_** cut into his chest. They were obsessed with us, because we fought back, we were just a bunch of Losers, but we fought back. The kid leading it got caught after he stabbed his own father in the neck." He wouldn't drop Mike's gaze. "But before he even washed his knife, he was looking for _me_. A lot of people hated me in that town, Mikey-boy, but none as much as Henry Bowers and his boys did." He smiled, watching Mike flinch. "So, the rock war."

"That sounds intense." Lucas spoke from behind him. "Did they every find that kid, your friends brother?" Richie felt his mind slip, he could see it so clearly, Pennywise, _IT_, biting off Georgie's arm and letting him bleed, swallowing him whole like a horrific snake.

_You'll float too. _

"They found what was left of him." The words hung over them, heavy in the buzzing arcade. Lucas had lost, but he hadn't moved, still staring at the blinking screen.

"Hey, Lucas, Mike, what did I miss?" A boy, with wildly curly brown hair, soft eyes, and a wide smile greeted them. No one spoke, and he deflated. "I feel like I came in here with completely the wrong energy, what's going on?"

"I was just thinking about Aunt Karen's ten inch wang." Richie immediately lit up, watching Mike's expression go from concern to embarrassment in less than four seconds.

"Dude, what the fuck?" He ignored him, extending a hand to the new boy.

"Richie Tozier, Micheal here is fortunate enough to be living with me for the foreseeable future, isn't that right, Cuzzy-Wuzzy?" Mike groaned, the other boy grabbed his hand, immediately flinching, goosebumps spreading all the way up his arm. "Pleasure to meet you."

"I'm Dustin."

"Anyone else you need to introduce me to?" He turned to Mike.

"You know, I don't think I want the rest of my friends to meet you." Richie's hands flew to his cheeks, he twisted his face into what he hoped looked like a scandalized, grandmotherly glare.

"Micheal Wheeler! How dare you! Just when I thought we were getting along." He rolled his eyes.

"I'll go see if Max is around. Something tells me you'll like her."

"Why, do we have the same essence?" Richie leaned in close, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Well, you both annoy the hell out of me, so-"

"You're right, I'll love her." Richie decided, fiddling with the cut in his palm idly. Mike was staring at his hand.

"I saw that Polaroid of all of your hands, bleeding and stuff, when I was in your room. What happened?" Richie held it out to him.

"We made a blood pact." He didn't elaborate, Mike studied his hand, and shuddered.

"Do you know why you're so cold?" Richie shook his head, looking Mike in the eyes, careful, clever, and knowing. Just like him.

"Something is wrong with this town, Mike. But you already knew that, didn't you? There's something here, the same thing that was in Derry. They blamed it all on Henry Bowers, but I watched him with that switchblade, and there is no way he would have killed two of his own. No way. There was something there, something that didn't seem human at all, like nothing you've ever seen. I don't know why I'm telling you about _IT_, I didn't tell anyone. Anyone, Mike. Only the Losers Club have fought _IT_, adults don't see _IT_. But, we did." He grabbed Mike's hands, watching him flinch with odd satisfaction. He liked being cold. "What happened here, Mike? Why do you look so scared?"

"They could be listening, asshole. We have to go somewhere else."

"They?" He pulled him out from between the two machines, where they had been hiding, when two boys cut them off. _Well, isn't this eerily familiar?_

"Aww, were you making out with your little fag boyfriend, Wheeler?" The guy was shorter than Richie, with the kind of muscles you get from running and football, not fighting. Not the kind of muscle memory, the kind of instinctRichie had been building every day since the fifth grade. He looked at Richie, curious, and almost... excited. His eyes had something familiar in them that made his skin crawl.

"Who the fuck are you?" Richie asked, stepping forward until he was looking down at him.

"Troy." The boy said, glaring.

"Well, Troy, I suggest you leave me and Mikey alone. Don't make me ask again." He had the nerve to laugh, a few of the other teenagers were staring at them, so Richie figured he might as well put on a good show. He laughed, loudly, snickering into his fist as obnoxiously as possible. He stopped, tossing his lighter, catching it in his fist and sending his knuckles into Troy's mouth. He hit the ground. Hard, glaring up at him with an ugly grimace. He spat out two, perfectly white teeth. "What did I tell you about making me ask again?" He felt like he was looking at someone he knew, someone he hated, he kicked his muddy sneakers into the guy's stomach. Hard. "Get." _Kick_. "Out." _Kick_. "NOW." The kid picked up his teeth, his friend helping him to his feet.

"I don't know who the fuck you are, but you'll pay for that, you fucking queer." Richie laughed, shoving his lighter back in his pocket.

"What, sorry? I couldn't hear you around all the blood you're gargling." The two boys left the arcade in a rage, all but slamming the door shut behind them.

"Where the hell did you learn to fight like that?" Mike whispered.

"I've been getting the shit knocked out of me my whole life."

"I can't believe you just punched Troy, that guy's been an asshole mouthbreather as long as he's been alive." Richie pushed his glasses up his nose.

"Lucky for you, so have I." They rejoined Mike's friends, who he consistently referred to as _The Party_, whatever that meant. He finally got to meet the last two, the ones he had missed the first time around. Max, who reminded him of Beverly too much for him to feel safe with her yet, and Will, who was soft, and kind, and very pretty. He reminded him of his Mike back home, gentle.

Richie noticed that Will didn't flinch when they shook hands, because they were the exact same temperature. They looked at each other carefully, before Richie raised a hand like he was in class.

"Mike, I think I cracked my knuckles open on that kids teeth." He was bleeding, but this one should heal, he hadn't gotten it on Niebolt. "Anyone got a bandaid?" Mike sighed, examining Richie's bloody knuckles.

"Your social worker said you weren't supposed to get into-"

"-fights or steal shit. I know, Mikey." He grinned, all crooked. He knew his broken glasses were crooked, on his crooked, twice-broken nose. "It's all I'm good at though, I can't help it." He tried to pout, ignoring his cousin's glare.

"You're an idiot."

"Who did he hit?" Max, at his right.

"You didn't hear him crying like a little fucking pussy? Some kid named Troy decided to puff up his chest at me, so..." He wiggled his nasty, scar covered fingers, the blood only making them look worse.

The pay phone started ringing, in the foyer.

All of Mike's friends looked at each other, almost in sync, the one closest, Dustin, picked it up.

"Hello?" He went white. "It's for you, Richie." He felt like time was slow, he stumbled to the phone, pressing it to his ear like it was some kind of bomb. Gingerly.

"_Hiya, Richie._" White hot anger, she sounded all nasal, trying to talk like IT.

"Fuck you, Bevvy, you scared the shit out of me." He felt his shoulders relax immediately. "You're a bitch."

"Says you, Trashmouth."

"Don't call me a Trashmouth, slut."

"I know you are but what am I? Beep fucking beep, asshole."

"Don't beep me! You just tried to sound like-like _IT_. Didn't help that you're calling a pay phone. How the fuck did you get this number anyway?"

"I called Mrs. Wheeler, she gave it to me." Richie sighed, spinning the cord around his finger.

"And I am not a slut, I have very particular tastes, Bevvy."

"And what tastes are those?"

"Pretty, and on their knees in front of me." She laughed, and his heart swelled.

"I better remember that when I'm in town."

"Oh, you can have me anytime, Bevvy." He got all sappy, serious. "I miss you. Seriously. Thank you for the gift, sometimes I need to look in the mirror to check that it wasn't all a dream."

"I'll break your nose anytime, Rich."

"Maybe next time a black eye or something instead, your pretty first made my nose even more crooked, one more hit and it might just fall off." She laughed again, and his chest felt tight, his eyes all watery. _Gross_. "If it wasn't for all the my-cuts-don't-ever-heal bullshit I probably would've thought _IT_ was a bad dream. It was like everything we did started fading the minute I was away from Derry. It's fucking terrifying. Then it got stronger the closer I got to Hawkins."

"That's bad, Rich."

"There's something wrong with this town, Beverly. I can feel it like I felt Neibolt, or the sewers. I feel like I'm not supposed to be here. Like I'm about to fuck with something ancient again."

"Don't-"

"I'm not gonna hit another eldritch monster with a pipe, don't worry, Bev."

"Leave it alone, Rich. Then come back to us."

"Can you come before August?" She was too quiet.

"Yes. We can come sooner if you need us."

"It feels like-like _IT_. It feels the same that fucking clown did. It feels like _IT's_ here."

"We killed _IT_, Rich."

"We weren't sure, that's why we all risked our health and happiness to cut open our hands with a broken fucking coke bottle. Come as soon as you can. Please, Bevvy. I love you."

"I love you too, Rich. Don't do anything stupid."

"When have I ever done something stupid?"

"I'm not even gonna dignify that with a response. Goodbye, Richie."

"Bye, Bev." He hung up the phone and felt five sets of eyes on his back.

"Richie...?"

"We need to talk." He looked at Mike, serious for the first time in ages. "There's shit going on here, and I need you to tell me what all of you fought because something big is coming. It's coming with me from Derry, and if you aren't ready, people are going to die."

-

They were in some junkyard, with a radio playing static, all of them were in the back of a bus, nervous and stiff.

"My best friend Bill's little brother disappeared about four years ago." He didn't look at any of them, eyes trailed on the floor. "I've known Bill since the second grade, so when Georgie went missing, it was like my little brother died too. Kids disappear all the time in my town, it wasn't weird for me growing up to see every telephone pole in town plastered with dozens and dozens of pictures of missing kids, but this was different. It was like even his parents didn't care, noticed for a week and the only change was they started hitting Bill the same way my parents would hit me. None of the adults in the town cared. Kids would go missing and it was just normal. It was so fucked up, but me and Bill and Stan and Eddie, we had all been friends for like seven years, so when the adults stopped looking, we started finding things."

"Stan like-"

"Stan like the one I'm in love with, yes. Him." He glanced up, and even Lucas was quiet, holding Max's hand so tightly it looked almost painful. "We found his yellow rubber boot by a sewer grate, and that was the end of the trail. Then we started seeing _IT_." He swallowed, and he couldn't keep his hands from shaking. "All of us, Henry Bowers used to knock the shit out of us, so we were tough kids, but nothing could've prepared us for the fucking monster. _IT_ can look inside your head and become your worst nightmare, it feeds on death and fear, and there was plenty of fear among us four.

"We met the other Losers in town one by one. Ben after Henry Bowers cut his initials into his stomach," _This motherfucker's leaking ground beef!_ "Mike when they were chasing him, trying to kill him for being black, Bev when she helped us steal medical supplies from the store with her ozzing thirteen year old sex appeal. That cashier was fucking disgusting." He grimaced. "We called ourselves The Losers Club, and we were gonna kill that fucking monster."

"Did you?"

"No. We thought we put it to sleep, but when _IT_ hurt us, the wounds didn't heal. _IT's_ feeding off of us." He pointed at the cut on his arm, still fresh, like it was about a week old. "I got this four years ago. Eddie's arm is still broken, Stan's cuts, even the ones he put on himself, are still so bad you can see every stitch. _IT's_ sucking at our life force and _IT's_ coming to Hawkins. Soon. I can feel it in my blood." He grinned. "So, the Losers Club is coming here to fight it with me. Are you in? Can you help?"

Mike looked stiff, uncomfortable.

"Show him, El." She raised an eyebrow. "Just do it, Jesus Christ you're-" A broken bus seat lifted when she raised her hand. Richie lit up.

"I knew there was something wrong with this town!"

"You are way too happy about that." Lucas said, and Richie just winked.

"I like being right, gorgeous."

"No flirting with my friends." Mike said, glaring a little too much. Territorial.

"Not even dear, sweet, _sexy_, William over there?" Mike's entire face went red.

"Not even Will. Especially not Will, you're still hung up on-"

"Stanley Uris, sexiest Jew alive."

"He's literally wearing a kippah in every picture you've shown me, I don't think you have much of a chance, Rich."

"En contraire, madamoiselle, Stan is at his little rebellious stage at the moment because he doesn't believe god would ever let a cannibalistic sewer monster exist." Will looked painfully red. "Plus, he doesn't know. I could still have fun with someone else," A meaningful wink in Will's direction. "Until my love returns from his small town prison."

"Shut up, Richie."

"So angry! Knew I'd find your buttons if I just kept looking, Mikey-boy, and do I ever love pressing buttons."

"Are you looking for a fight? Or do you just act like this all the time?"

"As if you would ever fight me, Mikey. Just because we're cousins don't think I'm not willing to kick every tooth out of your fucking mouth."

"Hey! Both of you shut up! This isn't going to help anyone." Max, furious, with her boyfriend gripping her hand like she would slip away if he didn't trap her beside him.

"I'm having a great time, actually, so it's improving the dismally boring situation I'm in-"

"Just shut up, Richie." _Beep Beep, Richie_.

"I'm leaving. See you when someone gets taken, I guess. Sick powers El, and as for you, Will..." He looked at the boy, who was beet red and fucking adorable, apparently Mike's breaking point. Everyone had one, but based on how Mike was holding El's hand, he didn't realize how he felt about the little, fragile boy beside him. "You heard my type, pretty, and on their knees. Call me if you're bored." He heard Mike practically growl behind him, and dodged the rock he threw at his head.

"Your cousin is a fucking asshole." Dustin said, the last thing he heard before the door slammed shut behind him.


	2. jane hopper is a strange girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> el follows richie into the junkyard, they bond over shared pain and cigarettes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for the chapter is head alone by julia jacklin.

"I'm following him." Mike looked furious, like his black eyes were about to fall out of his head. Too angry.

"No you're not!" He reached for her wrist, but she shook him off, glaring over her shoulder. She loved Mike, but he was too controlling, he treated her like a child. She wasn't a child. Just because she didn't know much about the world didn't mean she was helpless, she was less helpless than he was. She had suffered more than her fair share in her life. She was strong enough. She was smart enough. No matter what Mike Wheeler said to her.

"Are you going to stop me?" She raised her eyebrows, glaring at him. "He's hurt, Mike. Someone used to hurt him how Papa hurt me. He needs a person he can talk to about the pain."

"That person doesn't have to be you-"

"Who else is it going to be? Who else would help me understand?" She left before he could try to stop her again. She looked around for a moment, pausing after two breaths. "Richie?"

He was sitting outside the bus, not two meters away, with his curly black hair in his fists and his glasses on the end of his crooked nose. He was strangely beautiful, this boy with hurt inside his head. He was all rough, pointed edges, like cut metal before it got sanded down, sharp without meaning to be. He hurt without intention. He wasn't a knife, he was a half-finished project, unpolished and unclean. He had black eyes, like Mike, but they were harder, unreadable.

"Do you want to walk with me?" She asked carefully, watching his dark, hard-as-metal eyes for any sign of pain or resistance. He was half finished, so he was fragile. She didn't think Mike knew that.

"Sure." He stood, and he was all long limbs, like a spider. A foot taller than her at least, as skinny she was, with long, frantic fingers and a smile that was too wide and crooked for his face. It suited him, the unevenness, the rough edges, the face he would have to grow into. He was half a man half a child.

Unfinished was the perfect word for Richie Tozier.

Eleven liked having words for people, it helped keep them organized inside of her head. Will was fragile, like the stamps pressed to the boxes Jim got in the mail. Everything about him looked like it would shatter with the smallest touch, his careful smiles and his slender limbs and his measured looks at her from under gold eyelashes. Mike was harsh. He was quick to anger and quicker to forgiveness, his emotions tumultuous and wild. He helped her understand because he wasn't delicate about it, he was straightforward and precise without hesitance or preamble. His touches were quick and careless, his kisses hard enough to bruise her mouth. He could be careful if he tried, but it wasn't in his nature, he was a storm in the shape of a boy, as unpredictable as the wind.

"Why are you here, El?" Richie asked her, his hands in his pockets. They were wandering through a graveyard, one for things instead of people, it held a strange sort of melancholy, a sadness for the forgotten, beautiful things that once held meaning to someone. She stopped in her tracks, fixated on a small bottle-cap on the ground. _Coca-Cola_. She picked it up and slipped it into his front pocket.

"You needed someone to walk with you." She watched him spin the bottle-cap between his fingers, it was a dull, faded pink. "My Papa used to hurt me too, you know." He stopped in his tracks, looking down at her with his head tilted and his hard-as-metal eyes a little softer. "I could tell your parents hurt you, you aren't sad that they died."

"That was the only clue?" His voice sounded like sandpaper too, like cigarette smoke had coated the inside. He was beautiful, but his voice was ugly.

"And... the hurt. I can feel it in you," She reached forward, her hand, her body, so small compared to him. She placed her palm over his heart, and her fingertips on her other hand on his brow. "Here, and here. It's like a dull ache, and it eats away at your soul, it's familiar. Everyone who doesn't get love where they need it when they're small gets an ache in those two places. It never goes away. You have it, I have it, and Billy Hargrove has it." Richie seemed to relax into her hands. "It's part of this power I have, the feeling, the connection to people. It's how I found Will in the Upside Down, I just reached for his hurt, and he was there."

"Your Papa hurt you? That cop guy?"

"Not Jim, _Papa_, the Doctor. He used to experiment on me, lock me in little closets if I didn't do what he wanted, he made me hurt people, or he would hurt me." She could feel him echoing her, their pain twisting together like threads of fate. They were the same. He put his hand over hers, and took her fingers off of his brow, his black eyes softer now, a little warmer. Coal instead of obsidian. Progress.

"It was my mom. My dad never touched me like that, he loved me too much." She ached with him, and they were one, if only for a moment.

"This is where we belong, I think." She said, trying to smile.

"A junkyard?" Richie sounded vaguely insulted. She didn't blame him for it.

"It's a place for broken, forgotten things. Discarded things. I've always found comfort in the places that belong to no one, the things wanted by no one." She stopped again, picking up an iridescent button smaller than the nail on her pinkie finger, slipping it into her jacket pocket, smiling at Richie. "I feel like I fit."

"I think you're right." She punched him in the arm when he laughed. "I think I'm garbage too, El."

"Not garbage! Just unwanted, I'm unwanted sometimes."

"Mike wants you." She shook her head.

"Mike thinks he wants me." She had seen it in him, the hesitance, so familiar within him. She felt drawn to it, worried about him for a day and a half when she found the tie to Will. "I'm an experiment to him too, to everyone."

"I knew he was into Will!" Richie grinned, slinging an arm over her shoulders. She relaxed against him, feeling silly for it, for feeling safe just because he made her feel so small.

"He doesn't even know, so don't tease him about it. He'll discover himself eventually, and I want him to be ready when he does." He looked at her, with his soft, black eyes and his crooked smile.

"I'm still going to hit on Will."

"Maybe not the wisest idea." She smiled, reaching for a curl of black hair that had fallen into his eyes. He looked down at her, suddenly entirely too still, too hidden from the world, too beautiful in this graveyard for broken things.

"El, what are you doing?" She shook her head.

"You are very beautiful." She said, enjoying his little intake of breath, the pink that flooded his pale cheeks.

"You're dating Wheeler, El." She nodded, smiling.

"He is beautiful in a different way." Clean lines, fresh laundry, the way his soft hands and his pink fingertips felt on her cheeks. "He is harsh on the inside and very clean on the outside. You are all unfinished, like chaos." He flushed, red, pink, the freckles on his cheeks and the black of his eyes making him dangerous. "And he doesn't want me at all." She held Richie's hand, sitting on the hood of an abandoned, badly rusted car. "We belong in this place for now, but we will be wanted eventually. You by the boy you love, and me by a girl I love. Hopefully."

"You're a strange girl, Eleven." She smiled, savouring the word. The one he had given her. Eleven, strange. Richie, unfinished. A matched set in a matched place.

"I don't think you're the first to call me that." He smiled, his teeth were crooked too, only some of them. "I doubt you'll be the last."

"Strange?" He tried, she nodded.

"I like it, it makes me sound dangerous." He grinned.

"So if I call you strange girl you won't be offended?" She shook her head, tasting the words on her tongue, like blueberries and lemonade.

"You don't want to hurt me, of course I won't be offended. I can't say the same for Mike though, he might bite your head off." Richie curled closer, resting his head on her shoulder. She pushed him off and scooted back onto the car, laying on the cracked windshield to look up at the clouds. "Now you can lay on me, you giant." He put his head in her lap, letting her fidget with his curls absently. "Your hair is very soft."

"I steal Nancy's conditioner now, works wonders." She laughed, almost surprised by how easily the sound fell from her lips. She hadn't always been able to laugh like that, Richie had gotten joy into her heart more easily than anyone she had ever met. He had magic the same way most people did. Little magic. Karen Wheeler always cooked perfect food in any form, Will could pick up a pen and imagine entire worlds, Dustin could make the sadness in her melt like ice with a single conversation, Max had steel instead of bones, they never broke. Little magic that most people didn't even notice, but carried inside of them. Richie was like a soft light, a candle, he made the darkness lift away.

"I like having you around, Richie Tozier." He looked up at her.

"I like having you around too, El." She grinned, trying to practice a braid in his thick, black hair. "You're easy to talk to." Maybe that was her little magic.

"I guess we don't belong in this place anymore."

“Why is that?”

“We want each other, now.”

-

"El! Richie!" Someone was looking for them. They had been sitting on the hood of the car for what had to have been hours but felt like minutes, pouring their hearts out over shared cigarettes. Richie had lit one and let her try it when she asked, she had coughed, cringing at the taste, but brought it to her lips again, and again, and again until her breath stopped choking her. He had snatched it from her after a while, but when he lit the next one later on, he let her have a few puffs.

"We're here!" She stood on the car, waving her hands in the air. Richie was relaxed, laying on the car with his long legs dangling off the edge, smiling lazily in the sunlight.

Will came around the corner, pink in the face and breathless.

"We've been looking all over for you! Where have you been?" El smiled, nudging Richie's boot with her knee.

"Here, just talking." She said. Richie stood, sliding a smoke out of his pack, between his lips. She liked watching him smoke cigarettes, he was deliberate about it, like every breath was sacred, careful and calm. Sometimes he would try to make rings, or suck the smoke back in through his nose. She liked when he did that, it made him look pretty in the low light of the sun, the freckles on his skin standing out sharp, even through smudges of smoke.

"Well it better have been an enlightening conversation, Mike is pissed."

"Mike is always pissed." El said, snatching the cigarette from between Richie's lips. The edges stained from his strawberry chapstick, she could taste him on her lips when she licked them, after the cigarette was in his hands again. The smoke looked beautiful. She loved pretty things, things that felt neat within her. She liked smoking for that reason and that reason alone.

"Come on, tiger, just because your boyfriend gets pissed a lot doesn't mean you should try to make him angry." Richie said, taking back the smoke, offering it to Will, who looked at him like he had three heads.

“Thats rich, coming from you.” He had the decency to look embarrassed.

"Eleven, why the hell are you smoking?" She shrugged.

"I wanted to try and Richie let me. You could try too if you want, Will." He shook his head, wrinkling his nose.

"My mom's trying to quit again, it would be cruel." She filed that away. _Don't smoke in front of Mrs. Byers._

"Cruelty has different definitions depending who you ask." Richie said, glancing at Eleven. "Some would say me letting El have a cigarette was cruel, just because of the cancer risk, others would say me not allowing her a few puffs is cruel, because I'm not allowing her to make her own decisions. You can operate under the definition you want, but in my mind, having a puff off a friend's smoke in the junkyard, just to try it, isn't cruel." Will took the cigarette Richie was offering him and inhaled sharply. It must have been the black of his eyes, or the set of his mouth. Something about Richie Tozier made Will forget about his mother's wishes, just for a second. He exhaled a little cloud and passed it back, looking utterly disgusted.

"Taste worse than they smell." Richie nodded, handing it to El, who immediately brought it to her lips.

"El?" She looked away from the two boys, and at Mike, who looked absolutely livid.

"Mike?" She mimicked, sticking the smoke back between Richie's lips. He was a chaotic force, not a boy, and he smiled with impish delight at the expression on his cousin's face.

"Why did you give her a fucking cigarette?" He turned on Richie, who blew the smoke in his face in a way that was _definitely_ confrontational.

"Because she asked for one. Why don't you ask El? She makes her own decisions." She looked between the two boys, her furious, clean, complete Mike and this unfinished boy with dirty clothes and hurt in his heart. She felt a flare of protective anger rising in her, a pulse of anger she knew more intimately that any loving touch.

"Mike doesn't like when I make my own decisions."

"You told me that, I think, maybe..." He paused, pretending to think. "Seven times?" She rolled her eyes, looking at her boyfriend carefully.

"So you're talking to my asshole cousin about me?"

"Mike, I'm not trying to hurt you, not everything is about you." She said, hating him a little with every bit of anger that rose inside of her. She knew she loved him, but this charade she was putting on, this false idea of what they were and what they could be was getting so impossible for her to handle, to contain, he was lying to her, but she was lying to him just as much, every touch was a lie, and friends don't lie. "Actually, I was talking with Richie, figuring things out and I think..." Richie looked at her carefully, giving her a small, encouraging smile. "I think I'm gay, Mike."

"You think-you're what?" She closed her eyes tight, imagining her future the way she had on that car, the house she would have, the things she would have in it, the people, animals, little plants, everything.

"I like girls. I'm gay." It was so quiet you could have counted every heartbeat in that junkyard. Mike sat on the ground, looking a little too surprised.

"So you ran after him when he made passes at Will because you thought he would understand. That's what you said, with the hurt, but, how do you know?" She sat beside him, carefully taking his hand.

"I can imagine the house I will live in, down to the flowers in the boxes on the windows and the dog in the yard, and in my mind when I imagine who I'm kissing in that perfect house, it isn't a man." Everyone was so quiet, so calm. "I asked Richie how he knew, and he said he just felt it in his heart, that he could be with anyone, that he knew instinctively that a boy could be as lovely as a girl, and that in his mind he could spend his life with a man or a woman. I could only picture a woman." He nodded, resting his head between his knees.

"_Fuck_." She laughed.

"Sorry, Mike."

"I like girls too." Dustin cut in, and she burst into peals of nervous laughter, all of the tension in her body dissolving. This was normal. This was safe. "I was so scared to tell you guys- ouch!" Max had punched him in the arm, sitting on El's other side, pulling her into a hug.

"We all love you, so much. Don't take shit for this from anyone, alright?" Max seemed nervous, stroking El's hair comfortably, then steeling herself. "I'm like Richie. I like both." Lucas looked absolutely shaken.

"No more sleepovers for El and Max then?" They both giggled, relaxing against each other.

"You wish." Max kissed El on the cheek, and Lucas just seemed to get flustered, El could feel heat rising. Her playful friends. Why had she ever felt scared to tell them? She knew they loved her, she knew Mike would be sad, but hopefully the sadness would push him into Will's arms, and he could finally connect the dots himself. Based on the way he was glaring at Richie, who was whispering into Will's ear, he would get it soon enough.

"Look at how he's looking at him." El whispered into Max's ear, still giggling. "He's oblivious." Max followed his gaze, settling on Will, who was blushing furiously under Richie's attention. Looking up at him through his gold eyelashes, with his cheeks all red and pretty.

"Poor Mike."

"He's screwed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they’re gonna be best bros, sorry for the shorter chapter, i just couldn’t wait to post this one, i love eleven with my whole heart.   
thank you for reading, comments and kudos are very very appreciated!


	3. will byers is a disaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all of the older kids (nancy, jonathan, steve, billy) are only like 2 years older than the party and the losers club because i still want them involved. so they’re like 19ish. 
> 
> songs for the chapter are bruises (amethyst) and rock ‘n’ roll by elvis depressedly because his music makes me think of will so intensely.

Will Byers liked Richie Tozier in ways he shouldn't. His pretty black eyes were like Mike's, but different. Hidden behind those thick glasses that made him look like a bug, he had brightness in him, a darkness too, but he was always smiling, that crooked, carved up smile. Will wanted to draw him, all his uneven edges, the freckles, darker than Mike's, all over him. His nails were painted bright pink. He was in a baggy pair of plaid pants, cuffed at the bottom, with a big yellow t-shirt that said _PRETTY VACANT_ in bright pink and Chucks on his feet. Too cool for Hawkins.

"What are you looking at, pretty boy?" Will could feel his cheeks turning pink. This strange boy was dangerous, with his troublemaker smiles and his cold skin. They were cold together, but Richie breathed little puffs of smoke like a dragon. He tried to keep himself warm from the inside out.

"You, I guess." Richie let out surprised laugh, slinging an arm over his shoulders, ignoring the glares Mike was shooting toward him. Little knives and cutting shards of glass. Will didn't know why he was so angry, he was straight, El coming out didn't change that, neither did Max. It was just the way the world was. The sky was blue, the grass was green, Micheal Wheeler liked girls.

"Why? Eleven said I was beautiful when we were in that junkyard, but that's coming from a lesbian. Why would anyone ever look at me?" Will shook his head, laughing a little. Yesterday at the junkyard he had been so terrified of Richie, now, sitting in the Wheeler's basement in the farthest corner from the T.V. screen, he just felt sad for him. "What?"

"You are beautiful, Richie. Not just from a lesbian."

"From a lesbian and a straight boy, I feel so much better." Will flushed deeper, feeling himself get redder by the second.

"I'm not straight either." He finally said it, let it out in a big rush of words, too loud, blurring together. His friends all looked at him and Richie, his fumbling lips revealing the secret he swore he would take to his grave. Lonnie Byers only started hitting him after Will said he thought Mike's new haircut made him look handsome. "I'm gay."

"Is anyone straight in this friend group?" Richie asked, smiling like he was enjoying some kind of inside joke. "You might as well just all come out now, seeing as El got the ball rolling. Hello, I'm Richie Tozier and I'm bisexual." He did a little mock bow, frowning when everyone just stared, he dragged Will out of their dark corner, into the cold blue light of the screen, _The Neverending Story_ was on, but no one was watching it. "Come on! It's like Alcoholics Anonymous, you all say 'Hi, Richie' like you're one drink from killing yourself, and then it's Will's turn to speak."

"Hello, my name is Will Byers, and I'm the biggest faggot in the world." Richie grinned, all impish and wild.

"That's the spirit!" He looked at El, raising an eyebrow, watching her turn pink.

"Hello, my name is Eleven, and I'm a lesbian." She had her hands clasped together, smiling a little to herself after she said it.

"Hi, Eleven." Richie said, frowning again when no one spoke. "You're all no fun."

"I'm Mike Wheeler and I'm- I'm straight." He frowned at the carpet, eyebrows furrowed, glaring like he was gonna take out all of his anger on the floor.

"You don't sound too sure there, Mikey-Boy." Mike glared at him, eyes softening when they landed on Will. He didn't know what to make of that.

"That's because I'm not too sure, Dick." Richie softened, expression twisting up. Maybe he felt bad.

"There's a word for that." He was shaking, fingers trembling slightly, he shouldn't be this afraid. "Questioning. Some people experiment when they aren't sure, with other people. That's what my friend Bill had to do, I helped him out, I'm sure you can find someone you feel safe with." Mike's dark eyes flitted to Will, and he could feel his heartbeat pick up. "It doesn't have to be anything serious, with Bill it was just a couple kisses and he knew."

"Okay." Mike's voice was quivering horribly, his dark eyes flooding with tears. "I just never let myself-my dad-I-" Richie crossed the distance between them, getting to his knees and pulling Mike against his chest.

"I know, believe me, I fucking know." He sounded so shaken, so terrified when he said it, like he was remembering something torturous. "Parents are the best and worst thing in the world. Mine were the worst, yours are pretty alright." Mike exhaled, a shaking breath, ragged. "They love you so much, Mike."

"I'm still allowed to be scared, Richie."

"Will can help you out." Richie volunteered him, and Will felt his entire face get hot, all the way down his neck and up to the tips of his ears.

"I actually-"

"It's not like I can help him, and my gay friends won't be here until August!"

"Are all of them gay?" Richie paused, considering.

"Bev is bisexual, Eddie is gay, Stan is straight, Bill is bisexual, we’re the bi gang," He giggled, no one else laughed. "Mike Hanlon is gay, we do do anything because he's dating Eddie now, and Ben is straight. Him and Bev have something going on but she's still adamant that him writing her poems and holding her hand doesn't mean they're dating. Which, to be fair, she's been wrapped around me more times than I can count and we are so platonic-"

"Oh my god, Richie." Will covered his eyes.

"Sex is just making the other person feel good, there isn't anything dirty about it. You guys aresuch prudes." El studied him curiously.

"Is Bev the only girl you've been with?" Richie shook his head.

"All kinds of girls, little ones like you, big ones, tall ones, dark ones, light ones, even a trans girl once." He smiled contentedly. "I love girls."

"And boys?" Max was studying him, like she was trying to understand something, trying to puzzle it out.

"It's harder to find boys, I've mostly been with my friends. But yes, I love boys too." Will could feel himself getting more and more pink, Mike looking at him so strangely, fixated on him for some ungodly, distracting reason. He was so intent, always an intense person, so passionate about everything in the world. When they were small, when boys were allowed to feel things, no one felt as vividly as Mike Wheeler. He used to cry over the ants he stepped on, over the rain, over the sun, over how beautiful the trees looked at sunrise. He was so vibrant. Now he just seemed angry most of the time, the strongest emotion boys can feel at their age, the only one they're allowed to express.

When he's really angry, his black eyes flood with tears, the faint freckles on his cheeks, the colour of caramel, get so much brighter on top of a pink flush that spreads all the way down his chest. The tips of his ears went red when he shouted, his voice always trembled, a little quivering thing, unfamiliar. His hands curled into fists tight enough his nails cut into his palms, entire body curling inward. He tried to make himself so small, like if he was any bigger he would hurt someone, break something. Will half expected him to hit him, with how quickly the anger took him over, flooding him, erasing every trace of the peaceful joy they used to share, painting the world a million shades of gold from the grass.

It had been easier to love him when they were small.

"Mike, wanna go for a walk?" He didn't even realize he was saying it until it was in the air, breathing between them, between Mike's eyes, black as a _Magic Eight Ball_, and Will, with his trembling hands, and his little body. He was shaped like a skeleton, all skin and bones. He knew he wasn't anything special, in mind or in body, light brown hair, light brown eyes, pale skin that used to be soft and pink had hardened over the years. His hands calloused and cold. He was too shy, too small, not pretty enough for Mike, or masculine enough for the other few queer boys in Hawkins. He was a ghostly little spectre, white and brown and gold, in ill-fitting shirts and ill-fitting jeans.

Mike nodded, by some kind of miracle. Will was grateful, all of a sudden, for Richie, who immediately seemed to dial his disgusting humour to eleven.

"Okay, I have a joke, I just thought of it. So, a queer and Lucas Sinclair walk into a bar-"

"Oh fuck off, Richie."

He followed Mike up the stairs, slipping out the front door with his hands in the pockets of his blue windbreaker. They walked in silence for a while, down behind the house instead of on the street. It was quiet, darker under the cover of the trees that surrounded Hawkins like a force field, locking them inside. Mike had his hands in front of him, spinning a quarter between his fingers idly, taking shaky breaths. He exhaled, and Will could hear a tell-tale tremble, a little raggedness shifting the air. He was crying.

"I'm glad you told us." Will didn't touch him, not yet, letting him let out all of the building fear, all of the self loathing he knew too well. They both felt it, the barbed edges of the words spat at them, the ones Lucas and Dustin could just brush off, they stuck in their skin, ripped out often enough to scar. "I'm glad I'm not the only one, which is horrible of me, because it's awful to be queer, it's a shit deal. You can't get married, everyone hates you, people try to kill you, all of that bullshit. But still, I'm glad I'm not the only one. It feels twisted to say it."

"I'm not-I don't know what I am, Will." His voice was so ugly, so twisted with anger and hatred. "I feel like-" A vicious, unforgiving sob choked the breath from his lungs. His quarter fell into the dirt, his hands going into fists. "Like a _freak_."

"I'm a freak. You know I had a crush on Steve when we were younger? He always seemed to strong, like he could protect me. I always liked the boys that protected me, no matter how unreachable they were." Mike looked at him, face all red, nose bright pink, cheeks wet with shameful tears. The secrets seemed to lock their gaze together, Will felt that same intensity burning in those bottomless, black eyes. He felt like Mike could look through him, like he was made of cellophane.

"I used to protect you, didn't I?" Will smiled, feeling his vision go all fuzzy, blurring.

"Yeah, I guess you did." He blinked, the tears falling down his cheeks, slipping off the end of his chin, he scrubbed at them with the back of his hand. "You always did, you were the first one, you know." He looked up, and Mike was studying him intently, they didn't usually cry like this, not anymore, not since the Upside Down twisted Will into something darker, something wild around the edges, feral and small. He wanted to hide it, but Mike could look through him. Every time. He saw when Will slipped, his sharp edges cutting through the softness. He had always been able to see it, when no one else could, Mike had magic eyes, they saw everything.

"I didn't know that." A soft rustling in the bushes behind them, a familiar sound. A wet, slick sort of sound. Will stiffened, all of it rushing back, all of the pain, all of the running and hiding and the cold air that felt hot inside his lungs.

It was a demogorgon.

Coming toward them.

"Fuck! What the fuck?" Him and Mike took off, sprinting back onto the main road, the monster in pursuit, following them with its flickering, clicking, cracking sounds. It was a nightmare, the thing was gaining, Will grabbed Mike's hand, pulling him into the Wheeler garage, pressing the button, the monster closing in, the lights flickering wildly, then, it all stopped. The monster shifted, changing until it was shaped like a person, shaped like his father. It's smile was chilling, it's voice was even worse.

It turned its head, staring at Will, shifting again, as the garage door slid shut, Lonnie Byers face stared down at him, glancing at him and Mike's hands.

"I always knew you'd be a fag, a freak. I wish I had hit you harder when I beat the queer out of you." Lonnie smiled. "I was relieved when you went missing, I think finding you was the worst thing those pigs ever did." The garage slammed shut, and the lights went crazy again, vines winding under the garage door, reaching out for them when they sprinted up the steps, opening the garage door.

Standing on the other side was a clown, smile wide, with pointed teeth, and red balloons in his fist.

"Tell Richie '_Hello_' for me."

The lights went mad again, flickering and flashing all over the house, the entire world going dark. When they came back on, the clown was gone. Mike was breathing too quickly beside him, his nails cutting into Will's skin.

"Holy shit."

They walked to the basement, still clutching each other, tear covered and red faced, out of breath, blood gathering on the backs of their hands. They sat down together on the couch, numb, everyone else staring at them, falling silent.

"What's wrong?" Lucas asked, leaning forward, gathering the tension between them had nothing to do with sexuality. It all seemed so petty now, in the face of that thing.

"We saw _IT_." Mike said, tonelessly, numb. "_IT_ was a demogorgon at first, then it cornered us in the garage, and _IT_ just shifted, _IT_ was Will's dad, then when we opened the door, to go inside _IT_ was an awful clown with pointed teeth. It said to tell Richie '_Hello_'." Richie was white as a sheet.

"I need to use your phone." Will let go of Mike's hand, studying the matching, bloody crescents on the backs of their knuckles. He looked at Will so carefully, the intensity channeled into intention. Empathy.

"_IT_ said your dad beat the queer out of you." Mike whispered, Will could feel his heartbeat climb, his hands shaking.

"He tried to," Then he started to lose his breath, tears filling up and spilling over, sobbing into Mike's shoulder. "I wanted it to work. So badly, I just wanted him to love me, I wanted him to _fix_ me." His hands, big and clumsy, were so careful when he touched Will, fingers running through his hair, soothing.

"I'm glad he didn't. You're not broken, you're perfect the way you are Will, queerness included." Their voices were so low they could hardly hear, speaking in sharp little whispers. "I love you so much, alright? You're my best friend, and if he ever comes near you again, tell me. He's never going to hurt you again." Will nodded, sighing into Mike's warm skin. He felt like fire, soft and pale and hot as an open flame. He knew he was just cold, but when someone held him like this, he felt impossibly warm.

"I love you too." Will leaned back, wiping at his eyes, laughing a little. Not whispering anymore, louder. "I think you got blood in my hair."

"Yeah, well you got blood on my shirt, so-"

"You're wearing a red shirt!" Mike smiled, and Will swallowed.

He was so fucked.

"I talked to Beverly, she said the Losers Club can be here by Wednesday." Richie sighed, tugging at his black hair, looking absolutely exhausted. As soon as he heard the news about _IT_, he looked like he'd aged a decade, a new line between his furrowed brows. His marked up arms seemed like a grim reminder of what they were up against, deep cuts with messy stitches, scratches that never healed, scrapes and broken bones, the Losers Club had won their last fight, but the cost had been their health, and their happiness. "We should get ready, can any of you get weapons? Real ones? Like guns and knives and shit?"

"I'll talk to Billy and Steve, they would know." Mike shook his head.

"Jonathan and Nancy got the weapons last time, Steve just got a bat full of nails." Richie lit up.

"That sounds perfect, actually." Will smiled a little when Mike groaned. He liked Richie, Mike didn't, that much was clear.

"So, what else do we need?" Richie just smiled that mischievous, impish smile of his, black eyes going dark.

"Anything we can get our hands on."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it’s so short, i’ve been writing ahead and i didn’t want to go back and edit. big things are coming, even though this was messy i’m happy with how it turned out. 
> 
> comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!


	4. stanley uris is a fuck up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the losers club arrives in hawkins, mistakes are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter may be very triggering, i’m including a list of triggers relevant for all of stan’s chapters, some are kind of spoilers, but it’s important all of you stay safe. i’m not very nice to my boys. 
> 
> song for the chapter is fourth of july by sufjan stevens, mostly because all the birds and little winged creatures made me think of stan. 
> 
> TW: self-harm, suicidal ideation, past suicide attempts, misuse of prescription medication, mentions of drug use, mentions of underage drinking, mentions of sexual violence, mentions of child abuse, internalized homophobia, disordered eating.

His eyes were open wide in the bathroom sink, filled with cold water, trying to shake the lingering headache from the night before. He never really felt awake, even when he didn't drink, he felt drained. A broken battery lived inside him, one that couldn't hold a charge. He held his head under the water until his lungs were burning, his eyes fixated on the pale porcelain of the bowl.

He could just drown, if he wanted to. You can drown in two inches of water, enough to fill your throat when you gasp for air. Enough he would never have to look at anyone ever again, enough that he could forget what lived inside him, beside the broken battery. A heart that didn't know how to love properly. The thing keeping him alive, keeping him fixated on his best friend. The boy he had loved since middle school. He jerked out of the water, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, hair wet and slicked back. His skin was so pale he looked like a ghost.

He wanted a lobotomy.

Maybe then he wouldn't feel like this, wouldn't feel anything at all. His hands clutched at the porcelain, remembering how he had stared into the same reflection when Hell had build a home in his skull. He combed through his hair with his fingers, his light eyes looked empty. He always seemed to look empty now.

He had a bag of weed in his backpack, and a little bottle of pills in his coat pocket. He had to decide between them now. Before he could rethink it. His head was pounding, his hair felt like it was playing jump rope with his arteries, the pain was a twisting one, like a chemical burn. His cheeks were white as milk. He used to have colour there, he knew that. Now he was a corpse given some sick reanimation. The emptiness that had swallowed him whole.

There was a soft knock on the bathroom door.

"Y-You alright, Stan?" He hated him, hated his little, soft voice, and his dark red curls, and his careful, nervous hands. He hated everything about him. He hated all of them.

"I'm fine." He couldn't stop staring at his reflection, he was disgusting, something wretched and deceitful, something that lied as easily as it breathed. Monster. Fuck up.

"A-Are you s-sure?" The motel they were staying in was cramped, small rooms with shared beds and stains on every surface. He couldn't find any part of him that cared anymore, he could still see the bacteria, little writhing, living creatures, tunnelling into his skin, seeping inside of him like poison, but he didn't know how to care anymore. He didn't know how to care anymore. He probably couldn't if he tried.

"Just fuck off, Bill." He slumped, head cradled between shaking hands. He knew it wasn't just his hands that were shaking, he knew his entire body trembled like a leaf, shaking and twitching with coiled, electric tension he had nowhere to put, nowhere to direct. He usually aimed it at himself, at his empty, shitty, broken heart. He was trembling there, against the ugly sink, in a dirty motel bathroom, when he decided to swallow the pills.

The doctor had prescribed them, and even though he knew it was a lie, something dark and empty within him knew it wasn't true, he rationalized that it wouldn't hurt. He ate them like candy, sometimes he would shatter the casing between his teeth and lick the bitter powder with his eternally dry tongue. His mouth felt like a desert, no matter how much water he drank, it was like sandpaper. The doctor said it was a side effect, it matched his cracked lips and his hollow eyes, it was meant to be there, something they couldn't fix, medication made your mouth feel wet and dry at the same time. The miracle cure for the particular flavour of trauma Stan carried like a parasite inside of his skull.

His head-doctor said he had a whole alphabet of issues, _OCD, PTSD, BPD_, he had stretched them all out, sounding important on his dry, sandpaper tongue. Obsessive compulsive disorder. The sevens he carried, the light switching on and off, the hand washing, the hair touching, the words skipping, repeating, door locking, fear climbing. Post-traumatic stress disorder. A clown, leering with blood in his teeth. A boy, with black curls and thick glasses and a filthy mouth. A knife, in Henry Bowers fist and in his own, careful hands. Blood on bathroom walls, tears in icy blue eyes, two heads of red curls, both thick and heavy with a darker red, a human red. Bipolar Depression. Picturing his body stretched out, his long limbs limp and covered in blood, the times his father had caught him, the hospital visits he'd hidden, scars under long sleeves, he promised they were old, they were one's IT wouldn't heal. He reopened them every night with a steady blade and blood on his lips. The self-hatred, the hissing words, the liquor he stole from his mothers office, mixed with a whole bottle of the antidepressants his dad still let him carry in his pockets, laying in the grass to look at the stars one last time, waking up in the hospital after getting his stomach pumped and charcoal dumped inside of him. Richie whispering in the dark how they were the same, how his _BPD_ has a different name, but the same letters, _Borderline Personality Disorder_, how his was all about his carelessness, the fact sometimes he floated outside himself and couldn't come back in, his disconnect, his anger, his fear. Stan could remember the highs, almost worse than the lows. He remembered the euphoria, and the crash. It almost killed him every time.

This was a crash.

He felt his heart shattering inside of him like glass, a cacophony filling his skull, bouncing around inside of him, a shitty pinball machine, a wasted quarter. He had spent some time with his dad again, his rabbi father with an embarrassing son, a screw up, a walking PSA about what will happen if you ignore the words of the people older and wiser than you, if you spend all your time with dumb friends and skip temple and get crushes on other boys. Mistake. He was a mistake.

"S-Stan?"

"I'm fine, Bill. Can't you just leave?" Stan hated himself, he hated the way his voice hurt when he was angry now, how it rose and climbed, and turned into a snarl. He reminded himself of his father. He didn't want to become his father.

"Stan, open the door." No stutter, firm and unshakable. Bill was scared.

Stan put the bottle of pills on the counter, still shaking horribly, hair soaked from the sink water and eyes soaked from his tears. The collar of his shirt was dripping down his chest, cold and warm at the same time. He unlocked the door, and Bill opened it.

"I'm fine, Bill." Stan studied the pills, cursing the shaking, the weakness that lived inside of him beside the broken battery. He was worthless.

"No, you're not, give me those, now." Bill didn't wait for Stan to move his shaking limbs, taking the pills like he had taken Stan's hand in the first grade, when Richie had marched up to the two of them and announced himself.

"_I know you're already best friends, but,_" He had looked at Stan with his eternally crooked, thick glasses, his black eyes light and shining and full of life. "_We're the same. We should be friends._" Bill had slipped into the background after that, Stan and Richie absorbed in their own world, a strange planet. Richie liked to cuddle when he was small, wearing soft sweaters his mom put him in, with smart shoes he scuffed climbing trees, dirt on his freckled cheeks, voice soft and sweet before he learned ugly words from the older boys. Richie would swallow every insult aimed at them and spit it back, his mouth getting harsher and harsher by the day, until he was bad enough they called him Trashmouth, bad enough the soft sweaters had to disappear, his ugly patterned shirts and vulgar t-shirts taking their place. His neat jeans ripped all over, shredded and drawn on with black sharpie. He was a ghost in the shape of a boy, getting thinner, and angrier, and sadder every year until him and Stan really were the same. Skinny from skipping meals, black shadows under their eyes, with rumpled curls and pale faces.

"Take them, I don't need them anyway." He could feel his entire body vibrating, trembling with fear and with cold. "Hide them away from me, bubble wrap me tight, Billy, I might trip and scrape a knee or something."

"You know this is reasonable, Stan. Y-you can have th-them back t-t-tomorrow." He stuffed the pills in his chest pocket on his pyjamas. "G-go to sleep."

Stan wished he knew how to do more than sleep, but he was gone the second his head hit the pillow.

-

The bus ride to Hawkins was long, drawn out. The eighteen hour drive they had split between two days. They left when the first slice of sunlight peered over the edge of the world, flooding onto the bus, Stan drifting in and out of consciousness, sandwiched between Ben and Mike for the whole ride. He woke up to someone's hand on his shoulder.

Stan slept like the dead, like a corpse. Richie thrashed around, shaking and speaking and screaming himself awake. He couldn't stop thinking of Richie, his sun-hot skin, like a space heater with limbs, his freckles, probably darker now, after the July sunlight, his black eyes, familiar as the taste of his spit.

Bev was shaking him, she was the only one with enough courage to wake him up, he usually complained before he woke, but not today, not here. He didn't need more sleep when they were going to see Richie again within the hour.

"You up, gorgeous?" Bev was pretty, in the bus, the sunlight flooding her red hair and her cold blue eyes, her lips pulled up into a smile, her yellow overalls rumpled from the hours spent dozing on Eddie's stiff shoulder.

"Wide awake."

They clambered off as a group, Bill handing him the bottle of pills when they got outside, looking at him a little too steadily.

"Don't do something stupid." Stan could feel his jack-rabbit heart, damaged from his self-imposed starvation, so much quicker with these pills in his hand. He had control over life and death again, power. He wasn't allowed to use a knife to cut his dinner, but his dad let him keep these, let him hold his life in the palm of his hand. "I'm enforcing your dad's rules here, the safety shit. No lighters, no knives, no drugs. Got it?" Stan rolled his eyes. They were one of the only things he liked about his appearance, Richie told them they looked like honey, but cold as ice. Richie's eyes looked like polished stones, like the sky on a night without the moon, like a bottle of untouched black ink.

"Got it." He shoved the pills in his coat pocket. "Let's find that diner. Now."

He lead the way, Richie had wanted to meet for dinner before they went to the Wheeler house, he navigated. _Benny's Burgers_. Apparently someone had been killed there, the owner, the place would reek of death the same way they did, blood was impossible to wash out. Not every stain was visible with naked eyes. His daughter had reopened it a year later, and it was Richie's idea of a safe spot to meet. It was easy to find, a blazing neon building on the sunny streets, a mess of colour and life, the death twisting it into something almost paradoxical. He spotted Richie inside, his dark curls more tangled than usual, shoulders slumped, a heaviness inside of him that hadn't been there when he left. He looked like Stan felt. Drained.

He couldn't stop himself from almost running, finding Richie with a group of unfamiliar faces. He didn't care. Richie was looking at him with his inky eyes like he was the only thing in the world, wide and disbelieving. He grabbed for the fresh bandages on his arms, Stan ignored the sting, the way Richie was looking at the red that had seeped through, and pulled him close. He was cold as ice.

"You look tired, Stanny." His voice, his voice still sounded like a warm summer, like the sky at night when it was too hot to sleep with blankets or with the window closed. He almost burst into tears on the spot.

"I missed you like hell, Richie." He knew he was skinnier, he could feel the shrinking when big hands wrapped around his bones, he tucked his face into his shoulder, breathing him in. He still smelled like a boy, like ivory soap, like clean laundry, something underneath all of it was unmistakable, so tied to Richie it could've ran though his veins, unnamable. He pulled away, one of his hands curling around Richie's jaw, his thumb brushing the deep cut beside his eye, his eyes flickered down to the scar cutting across his bottom lip.

"Tired, and skinnier too."

"Haven't you heard? Our Stan has decided he'd like to die." Bev, her voice big and mocking and cold. She was so cold to him now. "His newest method is starving himself to death since his meds won't kill him and we've taken all his knives."

"Fuck off, Beverly." Stan wrenched himself out of Richie's grip, glaring down at her.

"It's true, you're nothing but bones," She turned to Richie. "You should've seen him when you left, he tried to drink himself to death, they pumped his stomach and filled up all the empty spots with charcoal." Stan rolled his eyes, his most recent fixation, his eyes, his honey-coloured eyes. Beverly was hugging Richie, avoiding his eyes, Bill was looking at him so carefully. They all treated him like he was made of glass.

"Why are you trying to skip out on me, Uris?" He jolted back to the real world, to Richie. His black eyes. His red scars, livid on his pale skin, freckles only a little darker than they were when he left. "What would I do without your tight little ass? Just suffer in a Stan-less world?" He felt like he was drowning already, Richie was bearable in a group, but Stan missed the real Richie, the person he was when all he had were hushed whispers and soft hands.

"Beep beep, Richie." He grinned, wolffish.

"I missed getting beeped, how strange is that? My new friends just tell me to shut the fuck up." The rest of the Losers trickled in, not all of them had sprinted like Stan, Eddie came in under Mike's arm, blushing when Richie wolf whistled. "Hey, hows your mom, Eds?"

"Don't talk about my mom, and don't fucking call me that, Trashmouth." Eddie was smiling around the harsh words, clearly almost impossibly fond of the beautiful boy in front of him. Richie pulled him into a crushing hug, ignoring his sudden shrieks. "Fuck! My arm!"

"It's been broken forever, Eds, let me love you."

"That's Mike's job." Beverly teased, jabbing Mike in the side, watching him curl inward, flustered.

"Mikey!" Richie enveloped him in a hug too. "Did you get sexier when I was gone?"

"Beep fucking beep, Richie." Eddie, giving him a playful glare. "He's taken." His hand curled around Mike's bicep dramatically, laughter in his voice. Richie glanced at him, at Stan, his dark eyes so alive, fading a little when they met his cold, vacant stare. Stan knew he was hollow, but he wished it wasn't so obvious, he wished his best friend couldn't see it.

"Have they gotten even more disgusting somehow?" Stan nodded gravely.

"It's unbearable." A small smile tugged at his lips, he wasn't used to smiles like that. Bill found his place at Stan's side, his brown eyes were hollow too, it was just harder to notice. All of his scars weren't self inflicted, they were put on him by his parents fists, hateful and angry. He had a black eye and bruises all over his back and his sides. His dad had thrown him down the stairs, his knuckles were perpetually bloody from punching his bedroom walls.

"H-Hey, Richie."

"Hey mushmouth." Bev gave him a sharp smack to the back of the head, going white when he flinched back violently, with wide eyes, terrified. Sometimes all of them forgot about Maggie Tozier and her blood covered rings.

"Don't be a trashmouth, Trashmouth." She said instead of apologizing, looking at him with guilty eyes like it was the same.

"He's allowed to be a Trashmouth today, also, don't hit trauma patients, Bevvy, especially ones with a history of physical abuse, it's a bad idea." Ben, with his steady hands and his light voice. Mocking her. "He's got permission to hit you back."

"I'm a trauma patient too, Benny, but I have sexual abuse along with the physical, so I get one free pass." Bevvy grinned, holding up her hands in fake surrender. "Maybe two, for the number of fingers."

"Hey, c-can't we beep B-Bev?" Bill, laughing and shaking his head, his wild red curls would be pretty if Stan didn't hate him so much, he told himself he didn't find Bill beautiful, didn't like his dark red hair and his warm, pained brown eyes. He was a bad liar.

"Beep beep, Bevvy." All of them chorused, Richie grinning triumphantly.

"You went further than I did," He felt her forehead. "What happened while I was gone?"

"Bill and Stan are fighting-"

"Is that why he's got the shiner?" Richie looked disturbingly excited at the idea.

"No, his dad threw him down a flight of stairs." She settled into the booth among the strangers.

"Ouch."

"Y-you have no i-idea, plus," Bill glanced at Stan. "W-we aren't f-f-fighting, Bevvy."

"Someone tell Stan that." Stan felt himself go red, glaring at Beverly, eyes going narrow, cold.

"I don't know what you think you know, Beverly, but me and Bill are fine." They hadn't been fine, not since Richie left, the glue holding them together, holding Stan together. Without him, Stan crumpled like wet paper, he failed all of his classes, drank himself almost to death, the cutting got worse, the drugs got more frequent, he burned himself on cigarette butts, and Bill had tried to stop him. There was an icy distance between them now, one Bill kept trying to fix, and Stan kept trying to break even more, drift out to sea far away from Bill and his sweet concern. They stood uncomfortably close to each other, never farther than a foot if Stan could help it, measuring their close, warm touches and careless lips. "Me and Bill never fight." She had the nerve to laugh.

"Stan, nothing about you is fine." He glared, crossing his bandaged arms over his skinny chest. Everything he owned was stained with blood and tears, he hated her for noticing, he loved her for being angry, for the fire in her eyes when she told Richie something he was doing, the self-righteous fury she burned with. "You haven't been fine since the clown." Too far. All of the love, the adoration, vanished like smoke. Forbidden ground. No Mans Land.

"I hate you, you know that?" His voice was hard, unyielding. It wasn't a joke.

"I don't doubt it." Like fire and ice, she tried to melt his pointed edges, ignoring the icy hands that tried to wrap around her throat. They were opposites, they couldn't get along if they tried, and Stan was done trying. "I'm allowed to be angry, Stan. You don't just get to check out, you don't just get to-"

"Shut the fuck up, Marsh." The hatred between them was livid, caustic. They spat jagged words with razor-sharp tongues until they drew blood, they never stopped, not now. "It's my life, I can do what I want with it." He watched her face go red, the anger rising like the tide.

"You prick, why would you ever-"

"Enough." Bill, not stuttering, voice hard, sharp, deadly. "Do you ever stop? He's not going to change, and this isn't the t-time." He looked pointedly at the strangers surrounding them, all different colours, some bloodless, some as red as sunlight through smoke. Bill turned on Stan, as he often did in those days, as furious as Beverly and twice as terrified. "You don't get to defend these fucked up decisions, Stan. You decided that when you went off the rails." Stan wanted to spit in his face.

"What the hell happened while I was gone?" Richie looked at them like he was looking at strangers, the anger between them wasn't new, but it had never been this vivid, this hot to the touch. They were spitting curses like they used to spit quips, their tongues trained to be ruthless and their minds sharp as ice.

"Bill and Stan discovered that without a buffer they fucking hate each other." Eddie sat opposite the boys, beside Beverly. "Can we get some menus?" He shouted, a waitress eyeing them nervously as she handed six to him over the edge of the booth.

"I don't hate him." Stan bristled, looking at Eddie like he was a particularly vile cockroach. "He just likes to try and control me." Bill put a menu in front of him and Stan's lips curled in disgust almost instinctively.

"Pick s-something." His freckled hands, his little, narrow fingers and delicate movements.

"I'm not hungry."

"You're never hungry." His voice was bitter, biting, and resigned. "At least get a milkshake."

"That sounds disgusting as hell, Billy."

"Fine, p-pick something else. No caffeine, your heart will give out, y-you put it through th-the goddamn ringer, th-the poor th-thing." Stan sighed.

"Tea it is then, I guess." The rest of the Losers didn't seem phased, just Richie stared at him, lips parted and eyes shining with a worrying light.

"What is he talking about, Stanny?"

"Idiot downed a bottle of his mommy's vodka on a three days empty stomach, then went for a run, his heart really didn't like that." Beverly studied her menu, speaking almost absently. "That's when his parents finally decided to buy a lock for the liquor cabinet, he only had to use their drinks to try for it twice, the fucking morons." Stan glared up at her, he really didn't like all this talking, this chattering like he didn't even exist, like he wasn't in front of them. He felt like a ghost.

"They aren't morons-"

"Your dad lets you eat potentially deadly medication like fucking mints, your mom put a lock on your bedroom door. They are so stupid it's almost unbelievable. Its like they want you to die." She glanced at the strangers squished against the wall, their confused faces flooded with a horrific amount of pity. He already hated them. "Are we gonna discuss Stan's recent suicidal spiral right now, or are you gonna introduce us to these fucking nerds?" She waved over a waitress, ordering herself a burger, two orders of fries, and a strawberry milkshake, looking at Stan so furiously it was almost funny. Everyone else ordered, Stan asking for peppermint tea and honey.

"Dustin," A boy with tidy brown curls and furrowed brows. "Max," A girl with long red hair and a deadly light in her eyes. "Lucas," Dark brown eyes shot through with gold and a strange set to his full lips, like he knew something you didn't. "Will," Skinny, with straight brown hair and sharp green eyes, fear coating his every movement like a second skin. "Ellie," Pink, glittery lipgloss, brown curls, a strange set to her shoulders, her face was pinched like she was in pain. "And my cousin, Mike." The breath swept out of Stan's lungs. It was Richie, like he had been years before, skin clean, free of bloody cuts and gashes, they had the same pale skin, the same eyes, the same curved nose, the same lips, he knew Richie's mouth better than he knew his own name, and this boy was identical. His hair was straight, and his clothes were neat, and his freckles weren't as numerous and dark, but it was Richie. They were like twins, almost, but not quite.

"Holy _shit_." He looked between them, he couldn't stop fixating on their lips, their identical mouths and identical eyes. "That's uncanny." Bill caught his eye, shaking his head in a way he probably thought was subtle. _Don't bury yourself in him. Don't take what you want from a stranger._ Colour swept into Stan's cheeks. The curse of his milk-pale face was the vivid shade of red he turned now, looking at Mike, then at Bill's hard brown eyes, face hot. "I know." He hissed in a small voice, one the other Losers were accustomed to now, Bill and Stan in a corner, whispering, curled so close they shared breaths, an occurrence as common as breathing. "I'm not going to."

"But it has to be tempting." Bill's voice, equally small. They confided in each other, things they had never told anyone, only Bill knew him so intimately, knew about how he felt about Richie.

"In case you've forgotten, I spent my entire life avoiding temptation, Billy." Voice louder, still low, but loud enough for someone else to hear.

"Shame you gave up on that." His voice was small, biting. He ruffled his hair, palm covering the spot he used to wear his yarmulke, he had thrown it in his father's face during an argument, and found it on his desk the next morning. He remembered the way his father looked when he did it, the hollow acceptance in them when he came downstairs the next morning without it. Stan brushed a finger over his ribs, laughing a little when he flinched, when he spoke, he still had a smile in his voice. "The b-bruises, dick." Bill was all pink lips and crooked teeth.

"Oops, sorry." Stan said sarcastically. Bill grabbed his wrist, specifically, the open cuts on his wrist, Stan jumped about a foot, recoiling on instinct.

"P-payback."

"Fucker." They weren't very touchy with everyone, not anymore, but Bill and Stan still curled together, close enough they memorized each other's heartbeats. Now, on this bench, trading feather-light touches on deep wounds, they were knotted together by their long limbs, a mess of elbows and knees. They both jumped when Bev spoke, her mom voice on.

"Boys, stop poking each other's injuries, it's morbid as hell." Their smiles shrank, but stayed on their lips. Just little curled corners. Bill against him, head of fiery curls on his shoulder, radiating heat. Stan grabbed his hand, fingers knitting together, his were always bloodless and cold, Bill was hot as an open flame.

"Aww, how adorable," Beverly cooed, watching them both turn pink. "Just fuck already, you're already so close you're almost inside each other." Bill went a vivid red, probably picturing the touches they had shared, the exploratory hands and hesitant kisses. It was platonic, helpful. Stan had been desperate, and confused, and alone, Bill had been like a guiding light. They were both crimson.

"_W-whaat_?" His voice was pitched just a little too high, Stan winced internally at the light that seemed to flood Bev's eyes.

"You didn't." So scandalized, mocking, excited. She was leaning forward. "Holy shit, our Stanny's all grown up!" He groaned, detangling himself from Bill to put his head on his hands, trying to hide. He wanted to disappear, turn invisible.

"N-no-"

"Stan, you and Bill...?" She trailed off, and Bill continued his lukewarm denial.

"I- w-we-"

"It's fine, Bill, you're not exactly helping." Bill was even more red somehow, his shoulders up around his ears, his bottom lip between his teeth, hands tangled together. "We aren't dating or anything-"

"Slut!" Beverly crooned, looking absolutely delighted. "Oh my god, you just, did it? Just like that?"

"I'm not discussing this with you." Voice clipped, cold, bars shutting down again, walls up. "It's not done with, its just a friendly thing."

"Real friendly, dick up ass-"

"A-awfully bold to assume Stan is a b-bottom." Silence, Stan was actively trying to vanish, curling as small as possible, red as a tomato, bottom lip between his teeth, eyes shut tight.

"Once again," He groaned. "Not helping."

"Oh my god, this is the best thing that's ever happened to me." Beverly was laughing, Stan sighed heavily, hands tugging at his curls, his curls. He shouldn't be tugging at his curls, that was a bad thing. A tick. A compulsion. His hands found their way into his pockets. When he slid the pills out under the table, Bill slapped them out of his hands. There was a deafening clatter when the bottle hit the floor. Beverly's laughter died, voice small, and guilty, and serious."Got it, off limits." She reached under the table, handing placing the little orange bottle in between two salt shakers.

Bill took it before Stan could even move, popping it open and handing him just one. A white circle small enough to fit on his pinkie finger. He cringed when he heard Stan bite it, a grinding, sickening snap. Like the sound Eddie's bones had made.

"So fucking d-disgusting." His nose was all wrinkled. Stan winked, watching him slide the bottle into his pocket. They were on dangerous ground, navigating a mine field and calling it conversation. "Why do you ch-chew on them? It's h-horrific." Stan shrugged, he could almost feel the bitter power licking into his bloodstream with every swipe of his tongue.

"I don't have to wait as long." His nervous fingertips, fiddling under the table, slower, along with his jack-rabbit heartbeat, his mind slowing down in increments. "Plus now we can talk about shit without any of you worrying if the freak is 'feeling safe'." His fingers flew up around the words, voice going high and mocking. "Bullshit."

"You _want_ them to talk about us _f-fucking_?" Bill's voice was small, but Beverly still went bright pink, they could all hear him, that much was clear. Richie had been suspiciously silent over the course of the conversation, unusually so. Stan gathered his courage, and looked down the table.

Eddie and Mike were making eyes at each other, Ben was talking to the waitress, and Richie was staring at him. His black eyes were unreadable, and oddly intense, hurt even. He couldn't, he didn't- he couldn't feel the same way, right? He couldn't be looking at him like that, like he was heartbroken, for the same reason Stan had had a meltdown when Bill told him that Richie had kissed him to help him figure himself out, how Stan had insisted that they should do it together instead, that he should lie, that he should tell Richie all it took was a kiss.

"It's been happening for years at this point, Bill. As long as I'm on my meds it doesn't bother me too much." He dropped Richie's intense, unflinching gaze. Years, he would be bothered by that, it would be different if it happened while he was gone, but if he was an option and Stan picked Bill, that would bother him. He didn't know why he was happy it would hurt him. He liked the rush of power it gave him, knowing he was wanted, knowing Richie would be jealous. "We were both just figuring ourselves out."

"Years? I though Bill knew after a kiss, that's what Richie said." Eddie sounded confused, especially when they both went pink.

"R-Richie was off limits, Stan had a meltdown when I told him because in the t-tenth grade he h-h-had a huge c-crush on him." Stan punched him in the side, too hard, his breath swept out of his lungs.

"Bill!"

"What? You d-did, it was a-adorable." He groaned softly, clutching his side. "Fuck, you've g-got one hell of an a-arm."

"You had a crush on me?" Richie sounded so distressed by the idea. Stan felt his heart sink through his shoes.

"I know, it's ridiculous. We would never work, we're too different." He felt like he had just punched himself in the gut, especially when Bill shot him a look of pity. "Fuck off, Denbrough."

"I d-didn't say anything."

"You were supposed to take that to your grave." Bill rolled his eyes, hand still on his ribs. "Shit, I'm sorry. Can I check?" He nodded, sucking air through his teeth when Stan lifted his shirt.

He was always a mottled mess of violet and black bruises, especially on his sides, where he dad would kick him. These ones were all around him, some were faded yellow now, some were green, but the majority of his pale, freckle covered skin was black, blue, and purple. Stan's fingers were soft, barely more than cold air, his touches were measured, practiced.

"Deep breath." Bill complied, it felt fine, all of the ribs were in place, his lungs weren't stuttering or stopping, they felt satisfying, filling to the brim. "I'm sorry, Bill, I didn't even think-"

"It's fine." He shut his eyes tight. "J-just be gentle."

"I always am, when I'm actually using my fucking head." Bill let out his breath, shaky and slow. "You feel normal, I don't think I fucked anything up." He dropped Bill's loose blue shirt, meeting his eyes. Brown, one surrounded by a ring of violet, his lips, one normal, pink, the other split on one corner, he used to taste the blood in his mouth when Bill kissed him, Stan's atrocious habit of tugging his bottom lip between his teeth didn't help.

"Who ordered another thing of fries?" Food at the end of the table. Stan slid Bill's bowl of some kind of creamy soup toward him, watching Beverly take her second plate of fries, and put them in front of him, beside his tea.

"Can you try? For me?" Stan took his tea, ignoring the honey to take a scalding sip. He liked the burn, it reminded him that he was alive, that he was actually here, he existed, he had breath in his lungs and light in his eyes. He wouldn't let his head snuff that light out.

He nodded once, staring at the fries. They had been deep fried in oil, it was awful for you. Potatoes were a starch, a carb. He didn't get anything but carbs these days, protein tasted too much like fat, he couldn't stomach it, fruit was too strong, too sweet. Everyone else ate, and Stan stared at the fries, trying to summon the strength to move his hands, to put one of them between his teeth. It was so easy to suck someone into your mouth, food was something else entirely, a strange beast he needed to tame, fear staying his hand. He could feel himself start to shake. Bill glanced at him nervously.

"You d-don't have to." He didn't want to give up, he had to at least get one. He brought the cup of tea to his lips again. Zero calories in peppermint tea, just water and leaves. He could handle one fry. Just one. He was trembling so violently he almost dropped the cup, he placed it on the table as delicately as he could, with a deafening thud. He kept his shaking hand there, pinching one between his fingers, and bringing it to his lips. It was so salty he almost gagged, he was shaking so hard now that he couldn't even pick up his tea. He felt like a failure, like some sad, pathetic creature. He didn't even know how to eat anymore.

He tried for a steadying breath, but the food felt like a ball of lead in his throat, sinking into him, creeping down his esophagus in increments, slow and heavy.

"Thank you for trying, Stanny." Bev studied him, his icy eyes all sad and worried. "When was the last time you ate?"

Three days ago.

"This morning I had half a cup of dry Cheerios at the motel." He said, ignoring the glare Bill shot at him.

"Liar. All you had for breakfast this morning was a cigarette, I remember because you used the stove to light it. It was horrific."

"_Someone_ took all my lighters, Bill."

"You were using them to burn yourself, we were within our rights." Bev slid a familiar lighter out of her pocket, bright yellow with a little frowney-face drawn on in sharpie. "You'll get it back if you behave."

"I want them back."

"You used them to set your bedroom on fire, Stan, it's reasonable they took it."

"You did _what_ to your bedroom?" His father, red faced and furious, angry tears in his eyes.

"I did it to piss off my dad." His answer wasn't directed at Richie, though he was the one who asked the question.

"It w-worked." Bill sighed, Stan had been kicked out, showing up in Bill's window at midnight with the clothes on his back and a bruise on his jaw. That had been the straw that broke the camels back. Stan regretted it, even now. It was too far, but he was drunk, and high, and so angry he was seeing red. He could have burned the house to the ground. "A little too w-well." Bill's fingertips ghosting over the faded green bruise on Stan's jaw absently.

"I still feel bad about it, alright? I was so high when I did it I could barely speak."

"I remember, t-trust m-me." He had held Stan when he cried, feeling naked, vulnerable. He had wept into his chest and kissed him so hard they were both bruised by morning. Nails digging into Bill's narrow hips, biting the inside of his thighs too hard, losing himself in him like he was an object instead of a scared boy. It was the only time Stan held him hard enough he bruised, violet marks in the shape of grasping hands. He still had marks on his hips and his shoulder blades, little bloody half-moons where Stan's nails had cut into his skin. "A-as if I-I would f-forget it." Bill's bitter voice made him think of the marks, the scratches carved into his back, his chest, still raw, the hickeys bitten onto his chest, just below his collar. It had been three days ago.

Bill had let him hurt him like it was nothing, just moaned and sighed and cried into his pillow when it was over. He felt disgusting just remembering it, dirty, like he would never get clean. Bill had barely looked at him the next morning, nursing a cup of coffee and a bottle of vodka, they both drank themselves stupid and cried like babies in each other's arms, Stan wishing he could take the harsh touches back, suck the bruises out of Bill's skin, until he was clean, and whole, and unharmed.

"I'm sorry."

"You've said th-that about a m-million t-t-times." He stirred his soup absently, long, delicate fingers holding the spoon almost like a pen. The nail on his thumb was half black, slammed in a door by his father. There was blood trapped underneath it.

"Doesn't make it less true."

"Just less impactful. Next t-time don't be an asshole." He deserved that, worse, Bill's voice was a low whisper, small in Stan's ear. "Or tell me first so I'm ready, alright?"

"I'm never hurting you like that again." Stan whispered, watching Bill's face lose colour. "You don't deserve it, you already get enough shit, I'm not adding to it." A small bit of pink, high on Bill's cheekbones remained.

"I l-liked the hickeys, nothing else, though. You can do that again, l-lower, next time." They were so quiet that could hardly hear each other, Bill's warm fingertips ghosting over the hickey at his collar and the scratches down his chest, curling over his collar bones, high enough his t-shit couldn't cover it. "Stop apologizing for it."

"You should hurt me back." Bills eyes went wide, colour draining from his face, lips parting. "I think I'd like it, if I'm honest."

"I won't be another way for you to hurt yourself, Stan." He was shaking, just his hands, his scabbed-over knuckles and scar covered fingertips. "Not happening, no way in hell."

"It's not like that-"

"No, Stan." Firm, louder. "I won't." Stan's hands flew up, surrender.

"Alright, alright, I got it." His blood soaked bandages probably weren't helping matters, never mind the round burns on his palms from putting out cigarettes on his skin, the gash they all wore in the centre of their palms surrounded by red, or the skinny, straight scratches all over every finger, deep, some wrapped in band-aids, long, raised scars, still red, from the time he decided to cut with the little knife all the way to his bones. "Calm down." His hands curled into fists and fell into his lap, the backs of them were clear except for the bruises on his knuckles.

"You don't get to tell me to calm down."

"I don't? Fuck you, Denbrough." They were glaring at each other, familiar anger crackling between them.

"Boys, stop. Why are you so angry? Where did this come from?" Beverly was furious, so were they. "It's like a flip switched and you went from alright to livid, what's going on?" Bill shrugged helplessly, staring into his soup bowl like it held every secret in the universe.

"Nothing is going on, Bev. Leave it alone." He watched Bill tug at his collar, the dark hickeys littering his chest appearing and disappearing within a second, the scratches looked raised and ugly. Stan averted his eyes, disgust and self hatred welling in his chest.

"It's not nothing, you're hurting." A small, soft voice broke the stiff silence on the other side of the table, she was delicate, skinny. Built like a bird. "He is too, you're both angry because you're in pain. I could feel it ever since you set foot in Hawkins. The hurt is here," She touched her forehead, then her chest. "It's where you hurt when you didn't get loved properly when you were small. I have it, Billy Hargrove has it, Richie has it, and you two have it." Her expression twisted. "Bill's is the worst, Stan is mostly hurting here." Her fingertip traced a line across her throat. "You hurt the same way Will does, it's the hatred place, when the anger curls inward and chokes you."

Stan looked at the strange, beautiful girl with his cold yellow eyes, he felt empty, all the feeling on his face whisked away. It's what he did when he needed to cry. His head ached, throbbing from the weight of the tears he had to hold back, fingertips twitching toward his pocket. His empty pocket. Her face twisted when she met his gaze. He felt a ripping sort of feeling, like he had been cut free of something. Like a wall had come down.

Her lips parted, a gasp of surprise, of pain, her brown eyes flooding with tears, her hand settling on her chest, her ribs, right where that empty feeling sat inside him, his lips pursed, brows furrowed. The weightless feeling fled as soon as it had arrived, the girl, Ellie, taking a shaky, steadying breath.

"That was- you are-" She seemed to be struggling for a word, the boy at her side, Will, seemed conflicted, hand hovering over her shoulder. "Agony." She settled on, and Stan felt his face get hot.

"It's not that-"

"It's like a branding iron inside of your ribs, I've never felt anything like it, it was so ugly, inside of your head. Your brain is covered in barbed wire, Stanley, my thoughts wouldn't stop circling, and the pain in your heart-" she stopped, and he felt so ashamed, face burning with embarrassment. "It's like it's turning into stone, and it's pumping shards of glass through your veins. It's torturous. How are you even speaking?" His lips parted, snapped shut.

"I don't know what you want me to say. It's not all that bad, really."

"Your body feels like it was built to kill you. I knew when you looked at Richie, and it snapped the way it did, started spinning and spinning, but this is just more confirmation. You need to kill the clown if your mind is going to heal, because right now, there's something broken inside of you. Something fundamentally wrong, something vital. I'm surprised you're not already dead." She looked at him so solemnly, still crying, face twisted with pain. She flinched when she met his gaze, like even looking at him was burning her alive. "It's unbearable. You won't survive."

"El? Are you alright?" Mike Wheeler was talking to her. He looked at her, and even though she was looking away, she flinched like she'd touched a hot element. He kept his eyes trained on the table. She didn't deserve his pain.

"I tried to stay, I tried so hard not to tell him-"

"It's fine, El, just relax, maybe get some air." She stood, he didn't know what she looked like when she did it, he was too busy staring at the plain white tabletop. He heard the bells on the door and decided it was safe to look up.

Richie was staring at him. So was Mike Wheeler.

"She's never reacted like that to someone before." Mike looked shaken, looking at him carefully. "It sounds awful."

"I don't know any different, I assumed it wasn't that bad, but she said-"

"Something was broken inside of you." Bill said in a small, cruel voice. "No wonder you try to off yourself twice a week."

"Bill. _Stop_." Richie looked absolutely devastating, beautiful and dark, his cheeks colourless, his black eyes fixated on him. "Stan, it's alright to say no, but do you wanna get some air? Talk?"

"I don't want to go near Ellie again, she flinched every time I looked at her. Proximity probably makes it worse." Richie's eyes hardened, focusing on him so intently, with that strange, intense look in his eyes.

"She'll survive. You live like that all the time, she can handle a taste of it." Stan glanced at Bill, like he was asking for permission, looking into his warm eyes carefully. He nodded.

"Yeah, alright. We can go." Richie wasn't looking at him anymore, he was glaring at Bill venomously, he looked confused, furious.

"Why the fuck do you need his permission to be alone with me?" Unreasonable anger rushed out of him, settling in the air with a worrying, shattering light.

"I don't. Stop being an idiot, Tozier." The truth was, he felt obligated to ask. Bill had taken on the role of guiding, keeping him away from his worst mistakes, that was why he was the one with Stan's pills in his pocket, and his marks on his skin. He shimmied out of the booth, falling into step beside his best friend in the world. Richie was wearing his big black combat boots with red shoelaces, and a baggy Pink Floyd shirt tucked into shredded jeans, he looked like himself, still dressing the way he had in Derry. That, at least, hadn't changed in the months they'd spent apart. Stan kept his hands in his coat pockets, sleeves all the way down to cover his bloody bandages.

They met Ellie outside, she looked at Stan carefully, face still curling and pinching when she looked him in the eyes.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything, it's just-"

"I'm sorry my head is hurting you."

"I'm more sorry it's hurting you." She tried for a smile. "I'll head in. Make sure Richie doesn't do something stupid." She winked, and went back inside.

Richie offered him a cigarette, which Stan took instantly.

"You wanna go for a walk?" He nodded, putting the smoke between his lips, Richie slipping a lighter out of his pocket, leaning close, flicking it on. They both watched the flame dance on the breeze, reflecting on his glasses. His scarred hands were oddly beautiful, holding the little Bic lighter, holding fire like it was something made to be held. Stan sucked in, eyes meeting Richie's almost shyly. Up close, he could see his eyelashes, see the matching rings of dark gold in his eyes, around his pupils. He shouldn't have looked at Richie that close. It was bad for him.

Stan was the one who leaned away, smoke drifting from his lips.

"Where do you want to go?" Richie paused to light his own smoke, quicker about it then he had been with his, holding it almost carelessly. He was adorable when he was focused, eyebrows furrowed, that intensity he held narrowed into a single motion.

"Anywhere. Nowhere. I don't care." So Stan started walking, straight into the forest, Richie trailing behind him, disturbingly quiet. He felt hurt swelling in his chest like a balloon.

"What's wrong?" Richie's steps faltered, then fell back into the same rhythm, he was surprised.

"You're gay?" The rush of clarity was almost dizzying. Of course that was what he had fixated on, the fact that it had been Bill. That's why he snapped at them when they left the diner, why he had glared at him so fiercely, why he had leaned in so close outside the window, close enough they could have kissed.

"Yes. I am." A trembling breath, not from him.

"And you chose him?" He sounded like he was swallowing hurt, voice cracking and shaking. Stan fought down the fear, and told him the truth.

"I didn't want him, that's why I picked him."

He felt a hand on his shoulder, turning him, he hardly had time to blink before a pair of lips were on his. Richie's lips. His mouth was harsh, insistent, and Stan immediately gave in, dropping his hardly smoked cigarette to bury his hands in Richie's hair, holding him close. They clung to each other, protected by unfamiliar trees, barely five feet past the edge where the grass met the woods. Their mouths moved so naturally, matching soft touches, lips sliding together, sliding apart, trading open-mouthed kisses, breath hot down their throats, leaving them in gasps. He pulled at Richie's curls, dragging him to his level, bumping his glasses and sliding them into his hair, his other hand curling clumsily around his jaw. He felt hands at his sides, holding his elbow, holding his waist, his ribs, tilting his head back. Richie's tongue flicked his, and Stan felt like a fire had been ignited inside of him. His touches went from wanting to desperate, and hungry, harsher. His tongue curled around Richie's, licking into his mouth, the hand on his jaw sliding down his chest.

He stopped at the bottom of his shirt, at the shoelace he was using as a belt. Richie's kisses changed, slowing down, the touches going from frantic to lingering, every move full of intention, full of a bone-deep, aching, hungry need. They moved like honey, slow as syrup, touches soft, careful, and sweet. There was feeling in these kisses, beyond lust, there was desire, the kind that didn't come from touching someone convenient. They were delicate, shifting to lingering, close-mouthed kisses, until their lips were parted, breathless, Richie resting his forehead on his, Stan's hands tracing lines all over his skin with soft touches. His eyes were shut, so he jumped when Richie's hands cradled his face. His eyes flew open.

He was so pretty after being kissed. Curls standing up in every direction, lips shining and red, bitten nervously. His hands were cold on his skin, he was looking at him so tenderly Stan could have wept. He kissed him again, slow and warm, hands finding his hips. When Richie's thumbs brushed over his cheekbones, so gentle it was almost painful, so tender and loving it was almost dizzying, he flinched.

He had stepped back about a foot, looking up at Richie's black eyes, struggling for breath.

"Sorry." He mumbled, getting another kiss instead of a response. Richie touched him like he was holy, like he was something fragile or valuable. Reverent. Pouring worship into his bones.

"Don't apologize." Richie said, adorably breathless, cheeks crimson. He grabbed Stan's hands, a smile creeping over his lips. Stan felt heavy, frantic, panic was crawling up his limbs and rising in his chest.

“I’m sorry, we shouldn’t have done that.” His smile faded, his black eyes going all hard and shiny, confusion painted all over him. His pretty lips were parted slightly, Stan wanted to kiss him again. He forced himself to move, to look away, to keep himself from ruining everything.

“What do you mean?” Richie, usually so loud and bright, seemed faded, subdued.

“It was a mistake.” He was too harsh, but he had to be, it wouldn’t click if he wasn’t. “We shouldn’t have done it.” Stan hated the way Richie’s face twisted, his eyes shut tight like he was holding back tears. The rush of fear that poured over him was red-hot, melting his flesh and burning his bones until there was nothing left of him but the coiled ball of hurt he carried inside of his chest, getting larger and larger by the second.

“A mistake, huh?” His hurt seemed to have shifted, hardened into anger. His voice was almost mocking, bitter and caustic, made to rip and tear and grind him even smaller.

“I’m sorry.” Stan knew it wasn’t enough. Richielooked so hurt, hiding it behind anger. He put his glasses on properly and started walking again, further into the woods. He didn’t look back to see if Stan was following him.

“Yeah. I am too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed! the chapter was easy to write and hard to edit, i had to take out a lot because it was too graphic, but i feel like it’s a lot cleaner now. maybe it was for the best. 
> 
> kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!


	5. richie tozier is a delinquent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike and Richie bond over vodka, pot, and cheap cigarettes. Revelations are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: drug abuse, underage drinking and drug use, mentions of an overdose, mentions death. also, richie is being a self-destructive asshole, i don’t know if that counts as triggering. 
> 
> songs for the chapter are unloveable and bigmouth strikes again by the smiths. 
> 
> alternative artist choice: killer and waiting room by phoebe bridgers. both make me think of richie.

Richie woke up screaming, and knew it would be a bad day. Mike Wheeler stood over him, a hand on his shoulder, concern twisting his normally angry expressions into something unfamiliar. He looked so fucking pitying.

"You alright? I heard you from my room." Richie wiped the tears out of his eyes, off of his cheeks, the images of his mother flashing through his mind. Her cold black eyes, identical to his, her coiled black hair, limp by the end, thinning more and more as she drowned herself in bottle after bottle, line after line, her blood covered rings, her grasping hands and cruel words. She was tormenting him.

"I'm alright, just a bad dream." Mike looked stiff, uncomfortable.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" He shook his head, but he felt the tears welling in his eyes, and the lump in his throat so big he could hardly speak. He choked on a sob, wishing he knew how to be stronger. "We don't have to talk, if it's too hard." Mike sat on his bed beside him, looking at him carefully in the dark. "Can I hug you?" Richie nodded, and Mike, still stiff and scared, pulled him against his skinny chest. He dissolved, shaking, crying into his flannel pyjamas.

He had to look disgusting, snotty and wet, reeking of sleeplessness and heartbreak, but Mike just held him, letting him tuck his head into his shoulder, feeling so warm on his newly-cold skin. He just let him cry without speaking, soothing a hand through his tangled curls. Richie tried to summon words, to force air past the knot his lungs were tying themselves into.

"It was my mom." He finally managed, speaking into the other boy's skin. "In my dream she was alive again." Mike's hand froze, he let out a shaking breath, pulling Richie closer, curling around him, tucking his chin in the crook of his neck.

"Do you miss her?" Richie laughed, a bitter, humourless sound.

"I don't know, kind of, it's like she's haunting me, like she didn't ruin me enough while she was alive." He swallowed a ragged sound in his throat, unable to force back another sob, splitting his lips, choking on his own tongue. "I don't miss her, not how she was when she died. It was like living with a monster." So skinny she was nothing but pale bones, sharp nails, hollow cheeks and hollow eyes, hurting him with words instead of fists because she was too weak to throw a punch. "My mom killed herself, Mike. Like Stan is trying to, but he's actually trying, she just got a shitty speedball and overdosed," He let out another ragged, ugly, humiliating sob. "I found her slumped over at the kitchen table, she still had the fucking needle in her arm. I don't miss her, not like that, she wasn't even a person anymore, she wasn't really alive, she just got nasty, heroin took the worst parts of her and erased the rest. That's how I keep seeing her, I keep having these dreams-" he dissolved into tears, weeping miserably.

"Take your time." Mike was still listening, still warm and caring, still soothing his fingertips through his hair.

"I keep having these dreams where she's trying to get me to shoot up with her, but she's like she was when I was small, before my dad kicked it. She was like my real mom, all warm, with her hair in that little twist thing and her makeup done and her favourite perfume on." He curled his hands into fists, pulling at Mike's shirt and shattering completely. "And I always say no, then she picks up a bottle, and smashes it over my head again, but this time the neighbours don't call the cops, and this time she just keeps hitting me. It always feels real." He could feel the pain building, head throbbing with the force of his tears. "But it's not her how she was when she died, it's the Maggie who actually loved me. The one who used to read to me and tuck me in at night and-" He faltered, voice breaking, sobs almost choking him. "-and sing to me in the kitchen when we made dinner for dad, she used to dance with dad in the living room with a Bowie record on, who's parents dance in the living room like that? Like they're actually sick for each other?"

"I'm so sorry, Richie." He swallowed, voice little more than an uneven whisper.

"It's fine. It was just a bad dream." He had stopped sobbing, breath still ragged, tears still running like rain on a window. At least he wasn't sobbing anymore. He sniffed, wiping at his eyes, looking up at Mike carefully.

He was crying too.

"I'm sorry, you didn't have to-"

"You don't have to deal with this alone, alright?" Mike cut him off, wiping the tears off his cheeks and grabbing his shoulder, looking at him with black eyes, identical to his. Identical to _hers_. "I know you and I don't get along, but it's all so petty, so small. You don't deserve to be alone with this. It's too heavy to carry on your own, I can help. Let me help."

"Thank you." A warmth spread through him, he was tearing up again, but not because he was thinking about his mom, because of this boy, who should hate him, but didn't. "It's so _stupid_, I hated her more than anything, yet here I am." He wiping at his eyes furiously, laughing bitterly. "Mourning her or something."

"It's not stupid, Richie. You're allowed to have complicated feelings about her, she was your mom." Mike was looking at him so earnestly, so intensely. He did everything with some level of intense focus, and being the centre of it was almost dizzying.

She used to sit on the back step and smoke her cigarettes every afternoon. Four o'clock on the dot she would bask in the little bit of sunlight that got between their house and the neighbours, it was the only time of day there was any light at all. She used to tuck his hair behind his ear and trim it so it stayed out of his eyes. She used to bandage him up after she hit him, weeping, pressing on the bloody cuts and bruises with shaking hands, _her ragged voice whispering apologies between kisses on his cheeks…_

Richie twisted so his legs were dangling off the side of the bed, beside Mike's, blinking the memories from his vision like dust.

"I'm not gonna be able to go back to bed."

"So let's go somewhere. You can't just sit here in the dark."

"Mike, it's four AM."

"So?" Mike raised his eyebrows, looking at him with a challenging smile. "Doesn't seem like something that would stop you." Richie shrugged, kicking off the blanket. Mike turned the light on, visibly flinching when he saw Richie's bare chest. He had huge scars, like he'd been mauled by a wild animal. The werewolf had got him good, but his mom got him more. Circular cigarette burns on his shoulders, tiny scars from broken glass, long-healed gashes where her rings had split his skin open, his crooked collarbones, broken and set wrong. The scars from her were mostly in his mind, embedded after almost seven years of abuse, the verbal cuts were deeper than anything that could've been done to his body. Mike looked pale.

Richie put on a t-shirt, the first one he touched. It was the colour of blood, a noose in the middle. _Hang Loose!_

"A little morbid." Richie rolled his eyes, shimmying into a pair of plaid black trousers, tucking in his shirt before he buttoned them. He grabbed his massive jean jacket off the back of the desk chair, sliding his Walkman in the pocket along with a Sex Pistols tape, just in case, putting his glasses on, already smudging them around the corners. Mike was still in his tear soaked flannel pyjamas, so Richie followed him next door.

His bedroom looked how he expected it would. Star Wars posters, a bunch of complicated LEGO constructions, books scattered all over, scraps of paper, pictures of his friends on the walls. Mike was peeling off his shirt, slender like Richie, without scars. His spine, ribs, collarbones pushing through his pale skin. He put on a polo shirt that was hung neatly in his closet, then a pair of khakis that were too short around the ankles. He would catch up with Richie soon, height-wise, he knew he would. They were practically identical.

"Ready?"

Richie snorted. "I don't know, are you ready, Wheeler?" Mike sighed.

The door at the end of the hallway flew open, Nancy standing in the doorway, hair tucked into a pair of neat braids, a pyjama dress brushing her ankles. She looked vaguely annoyed, then wildly confused.

"It's four in the morning! What the hell are you two doing?" Her voice was a low hiss, Mike sighed, looking pointedly down the stairs.

"Going for a walk." She studied them, red eyes, runny noses, pink cheeks.

"You never saw me, alright? And I never saw you, you'll get in shit if they catch you, Mike."

"I know."

She turned on Richie. "Take care of my brother, don't let him do anything stupid." He did a mock salute, flashing her a smile.

"Of course, Nancy, I wouldn't dream of doing something stupid. Never mind allowing Mike to do something that could harm him, don't worry." He grabbed her hand to kiss it, and she wrenched it out of his grip.

"You're insufferable." He winked, shoving his glasses up his nose.

"Come on, Mikey." They crept down the stairs, hushing each other and giggling, surfacing outside, the creeping tension snapping like a rubber band.

"What do you wanna do?" Mike asked, like he would know the answer to a question like that. There was nothing to do in Hawkins, except fuck around with friends, or get high, or get shit-faced. The idea of getting drunk was appealing, but just the thought of ending up like his mother left a sour taste in his mouth, he was usually fond of more natural ways to ruin his life. Pot. Sex. Self-Sabotage.

"I don't know, what can we do?" Richie messed with his hair, almost immediately getting his finger caught in a knot. _Fuck_. "We don't share all that many interests, Wheeler."

"Everything's closed now, we could wander town if you want." He shrugged, and started walking.

It was strange in Hawkins when the sky was black and the lights were out. The streetlights cast long shadows up the darkened walls of the houses lining Mike's street, dark, some of them caught just right, like grasping hands. Richie slid a cigarette out of his jacket pocket, stopping for a second to light it. He inhaled sharply, the comforting, burning warmth pouring down his throat, the smoke scraping out his insides, polishing him clean. His eyes slid shut when he put out the lighter, holding it in his fist, swallowing smoke. Relief wasn't a strong enough word. Blissful calm crept into his limbs, some of the nervous shaking leaving his scarred fingertips. He exhaled the breath of smoke he was holding inside, his lungs screaming for him to stop, to give his blood oxygen instead of nicotine. He breathed the sweet air, the cigarette smoke familiar as sunlight on his skin. He liked savouring moments like this one, moments where he actually felt okay.

He let it slip away, walking a little quicker to catch up to Mike, sucking on his cigarette absently.

"Any ideas, Wheeler?"

"What about if we grab some of your other friends? They just got here, surely you want to spend time with them instead of me." Richie felt anger and embarrassment hollowing him out, Stan, his pretty, honey coloured eyes going all icy, telling him he was a mistake, something he shouldn't have touched. Stan, his mouth hot and insistent on his, hands tugging at his hair and brushing over his cheekbones and curling into fists at his sides, telling him they shouldn't have done it.

"No, me and Stan... I can look at him right now." It was selfish, but he had always been a selfish creature by nature, and that wouldn't change with a few months away from the only positive force in his life. Clearly he was important to Stan too, based on how much he had changed without him around, so why was he being so evasive? "I just can't. He's so confusing."

"What happened when you left the diner, Richie? I know it's personal or whatever, but you seemed upset when you left, and it was worse when you came back, and he got so quiet..."

"I kissed him." Mike stopped in his tracks. "And he made out with me against a tree, like, very aggressively made out with me against a tree, then he got all spooked and told me that it was a mistake. Then we kept wandering around in the woods talking about our fucked up heads, how we're both getting worse and shit. Like nothing had even happened. Now he's back at the motel, in the room he's sharing with fucking _Bill_." He spat on the ground, taking another long drag off his cigarette.

"Shit."

"Shit is right, Wheeler." Richie swallowed, then smiled wide, pain swallowing him whole. He didn't want to end up like his mother. _He wouldn't end up like his mother._ "Wanna get fucked up?"

-

"How do you manage to do shit like this, do you have some kind of weed finding superpower?" Richie laughed a little, pointing to the shoes dangling from the power-line above the house.

"That means they sell shit, Mikey, we're just lucky they were awake." They had knocked on the front door of a house with a flower garden and blue shutters on the windows, a girl with pink hair Mike said he recognized from calculus had answered the door, and dragged Richie inside. He emerged ten minutes later with a bag of weed and a bottle of shitty vodka. He had a smudge of black lipstick on his jaw, Mike didn't mention it, which he was grateful for.

"Fuck, I forgot my pipe." He took a small Altoid tin out of his pocket, when he opened it, the familiar stench of marijuana, heady and warm, woodsy, like sage, like burning grass, filled the air. He put the baggie of weed inside it, thinking fast. He felt around his pockets. A pencil, a pen, and two dollars. He could work with this. "Do you know where there's a vending machine?" Mike shrugged, leading him outside the community centre. Bingo.

Richie got a can of lemonade for each of them, studying the building carefully. There was a little ladder on one side, low enough he could jump for it. He looked at Mike.

"Do you trust me?"

"Not really, why?" Richie grinned. Smart boy.

"I want to go on the roof." Mike narrowed his eyes, studying the building carefully. He looked like he was puzzling something out, solving a problem.

"Alright."

Richie put everything in his pockets, the bottle of vodka settled comfortably inside his jacket, his massive inside pocket, the one he usually used for lifting, was big enough it wouldn't fall out. He grabbed the bottom rung and pulled himself up, using his momentum to get to the next rung, feet braced on the brick wall. He worked his way up the ladder clumsily, finally pulling himself onto the roof. He laid out his spoils, two cans of lemonade, pot, vodka, cigarettes, a pen, a pencil. _Perfect_.

Mike joined him a few minutes later, cheeks red with exertion. Richie had already cracked open the vodka, chasing fiery shots with the lemonade, it wasn't nearly enough. He swallowed a long drink, handing the bottle to Mike so he could light himself another cigarette. The first puff was always his favourite, his blood singing, his heart slowing, his muscles tensing and relaxing, lungs screaming. His eyes slid shut. The air was so still on the roof, he could probably manage a ring. He tried for it, leaning back against the roof, watch little circles of smoke melt into the clouds, smeared over the stars above them like finger paint on the Mona Lisa.

"Fuck." He heard Mike choke on the vodka, swallowing it roughly and grabbing for his lemonade. "This stuff is horrible."

"It'll put hair on your chest, Mikey, enjoy the burn." Richie grabbed the bottle back, chasing a shot and a half with a puff of his cigarette, the lemonade forgotten beside him. He drank more, the burn was strangely comforting. The sky was blue, the Earth was spinning, vodka tasted like shit. There was comfort in familiarity, in predictability. He swallowed even more, his mother's face flashing over him, pink and red high on her cheekbones, eyes glassy, black hair a tangled knot at the base of her skull. He felt like vomiting up every bit of liquor in his belly. He passed it back to Mike, who was looking at the bottle, already significantly emptier than it had been ten minutes before, concern furrowing his brows.

Richie rolled his eyes, downing his lemonade and getting to work. He poked holes, denting the can carefully, exactly how Bev had shown him, a make-shift pipe. He worked with the cigarette dangling from his lip, pen working the holes just wide enough.

"I just need a dick I'm not related to, and this would be the perfect morning." Mike pulled a face, swallowing another mouthful of vodka, only half gagging this time.

"You're disgusting."

"Maybe we could give Will a call on your little radio, share him, it would probably get him all hot and bothered." Mike glared a little, eyeing the can nervously.

"Too far, Richie." _Beep fucking beep, asshole._

"I know, I know you like him in ways you think you shouldn't. That's why it's so easy to dig and dig and dig at you, it's a weak point." Mike dropped all pretence, bringing the bottle to his lips and almost chugging it, cringing with every mouthful. He tore it away from his lips, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes tight. He was clenching his hands into tight fists, looking out over Hawkins with tired eyes.

"I didn't realize until after El and I started dating, I don't know if that makes it better or worse, but it's the truth." Richie put a bit of weed on top of the hole at the top of the can, putting his mouth on the end, bringing his lighter to it. The smoke tasted lemony, like aluminum and sugar. He let it out in one breath, using the end of his cigarette to push around the weed, taking another puff and returning to the can. "He's different, Richie. He's like home, I can breathe easy around him, he's so soft and warm, I just want to hold him and never let him go." Richie exhaled more smoke, coughing a little.

"Stan is home too. I think that's what love is supposed to feel like." His voice was small and strained, he coughed again, going to take another hit, pulling it into his lungs until he felt fuzzy around the edges. He put a bit more pot in the make-shift pipe. "You want some?"

Mike looked hesitant, but then he glanced at the vodka, and the black lipstick on Richie's jaw, and he nodded, holding the can clumsily, Richie holding the flame to it. He inhaled, coughing a bit before he went back in, dragging smoke inside him just like Richie had.

They got high on the roof until the sun started peeking over the horizon, Richie spun the lid back onto the vodka, leaving the can on the roof, the weed finding a home in his pockets.

Mike was fun when he was drunk, giggling more often than he kept a straight face, more daring, more touchy, holding Richie's hand, cuddling into his side, picking the knots out of his hair and dancing with him to the music on his Walkman when the sun started to rise. The tape in the player was Rumours by Fleetwood Mac, he figured it was better for dancing than Sex Pistols.

Mike and Richie basically fell off the roof, laughing and knocking shoulders as they walked, a tiny town coming to life around them. Richie felt warm, buzzed from the liquor, faded from the pot, Mike smiling beside him. He was scared of stepping on sidewalk cracks, so they made slow progress. He was glad neither of them got paranoid, Bill was fucking unbearable when he was high, always terrified. Richie's head felt blissfully empty. He saw a familiar face in front of the newly developing mall, smoking a cigarette before his shift in an adorable uniform.

"Hey, Mike, you know that boy, right? He's in the pictures." Mike squinted, eyes unbelievably red, trying to puzzle it out. The guy in question finally noticed them, his brown eyes going huge.

"Mike? What are you doing? It's six in the morning." Mike looked sheepish, stumbling a little when he tried to hide behind Richie.

"Dude, he already saw you." Mike shook his head, and Richie sighed, looking at the boy, then back at his cousin. "Fucking lightweight."

"Whatever, Tozier."

"Are you high?" The boy was looking at Mike so carefully, voice tinged with amusement.

"No!" Mike said, unconvincingly. He reeked of pot, with his bloodshot eyes and delayed reactions, it was obvious. Painfully so. "How dare you!"

"You've been caught, Mikey, hand in your badge and your gun." He tilted his head, confused.

"What?"

"Never mind." Richie's tolerance for pot and liquor was significantly higher than Mike's, and you could tell just by looking at them.

"Who are you?" The guy asked him. Richie grinned, extending a scar covered, icy hand.

"Richie Tozier." He watched the older boy flinch when he touched him, eyebrows furrowing.

"I'm Steve Harrington, how do you know this little bastard?" Richie glanced at his cousin, who was staring at a dandelion growing through a crack in the sidewalk, eyes wide, a smile curling his lips. Captured in a moment of his own, innocent, childish wonder shining in dark eyes.

"He's my cousin, and due to unfortunate circumstances, I live with his family until I'm out of the system." Steve looked even more concerned.

"What happened?"

"Richie's bitch mom kicked it." Mike said, his smile disappearing, moment fading to memory, like everything does. "Now he's with us."

"Is that what the pot is for?" He seemed empathetic at least, not judgemental, not cold or scathing.

"Nightmares." Richie said, avoiding his eyes, hiding behind a layer of jean, tugging his huge jacket around himself like it would help him disappear.

"He woke me up, screaming." Mike said, almost laughing, smile back with a force. Pain was his favourite flavour of comedy, it seemed. "He found her body, so he dreams it. Just sometimes."

"Thanks, Mikey." Richie sighed, pushing up his glasses to rub at his eyes. "It's not just that."

"What, is it the monster too?" He stiffened, turning slowly, forcing a laugh.

"I'm gonna get him home, he's fucking trashed." Mike grabbed a smoke out of Richie's pocket, putting it between his lips and struggling to light it. He finally managed it, sucking the smoke in absently, like he'd been smoking for months instead of an hour, sitting on the roof with Richie, telling him he's a _"bad influence"_ with a smile on his lips and light in his eyes. Steve's eyes flicked down to the shirt. _Hang Loose!_ A white noose. A frown on his lips. Harrington was good looking, too good looking, a delicate kind of pretty, a flower that opens with the sun. Mike blew a big cloud of smoke, laughing and pushing his hands through it, bumping Richie's shoulder and putting the cigarette between his lips for him.

"Nice meeting you, Richie."

"You too, Harrington." He caught himself, his eyes lingering on the other boy, his eyes, round and brown and pretty. He started walking, already wishing there was more distance between him and that boy with the big hair and the soft stare.

"Awe, you're all pink, you fucking queer." Mike teased, always too loud with smoke in his lungs. Richie knocked him in the arm.

"I only have eyes for sweet William, little Baby Byers, his pretty green eyes and his tight little ass owns my heart."

"Just because Stan called you a mistake doesn't mean you can steal my boy." Mike almost shrieked it, Richie slapped a hand over his mouth.

"First of all, low blow, Wheeler, at least I managed to get my tongue down his throat, you're terrified to even touch Byers. Second of all," he paused, looking back at Steve, who was starting at them with his mouth hanging open. "He have to go talk to Harrington now and make sure he doesn't tell everyone you're a raging fucking queer just like me."

"I'm more queer than you are." Mike said suddenly, turning so they were walking back towards Steve. "You still like girls, I don't think I do, at all."

"Damn right I still like girls, you could probably fuck Beverly, just to check. She would let you." Mike shook his head, stopping, expression twisting with disgust.

"I spent two years dating El, and I never wanted to do more than just kiss her. The idea of fucking Beverly is not appealing, sorry Richie."

"Don't apologize to me, apologize to poor Beverly. She has welcomed many a curious cock in her time, we're both-"

"Massive fucking sluts?" He finished, shaking his head when Richie beamed, heart aching, head spinning. He liked knowing what he was. He liked taking what he could get.

"Exactly. It's in our nature, that's why I was even qualified for Stan to use me as a sloppy makeout in the woods before he decided to shut it down. I'm usable, Wheeler, it's a talent." He would take more if he could have, he would take and take and take. There was unending want inside of him, insatiable, hot as the sun.

"Pretty sure he's just fucked up because of his dad, he wants you, Richie." He frowned. "Someone doesn't kiss someone else because of reputation alone, there's usually something deeper."

"Stupid fucking parents repressing their children's sexuality. If Stan wasn't still into all that God shit I probably could've gotten my mouth around his cock before he shut it down. What a waste." Mike wrinkled his nose, all of his supportive words vanishing, swallowed by dismay.

"You're disgusting." Richie winked, sobering a little when he looked at Harrington, who looked confused, and a little nervous.

"I don't know what your relationship is with Mike, but please don't tell anyone that he's a raging queer, alternatively, spread the word that I am a queer, I'm working through some shit, I'd like lots of options." Steve was gaping at him. "To punch or fuck, either works, I'm just a horny, angry boy. Any questions?"

"Mike, what about El?" He asked, Mike sighed.

"She's a lesbian, we were like stepping stones for each other or something." He frowned. "She is so into Richie's friend Beverly, and I told her to just go for it, but she's so scared, it's adorable."

"Beverly will fuck basically anything, once I watched her get off with one of those little hand massage things, like, right in the kitchen. Tell El not to be worried." Mike looked at him with a bit of concern, a bit of that same, familiar dismayed disgust.

"You and Beverly have a very strange relationship."

"We all fucked in the sewers after fighting that stupid monster, when we were trying to get out, we all had like this massive orgy, we couldn't find a way out so Bev was like, maybe we have to stop being children to escape, and then it worked so-"

"Weren't you like twelve?" Mike looked so disgusted. Like they had a choice.

"Thirteen, it clearly fucked us up, I mean look at me. That's what changed our relationship, shifted the dynamic, we wanted to try to explore our sexuality in a healthy way that wasn't essentially fuck or die." Steve looked hopelessly lost.

"Sewer clown?"

He explained what had happened to him as best he could, as high as he was, it probably came out a bit nonsensical, but this boy had seen some shit. Clearly he had helped Mike before, because he believed it without question.

"...So then, we thought we killed _IT_, because it went down the cistern but we failed, because _IT's_ been feeding off our wounds to bring itself back from the dead." He finished, sighing a little. "That's all of it, right Mike?"

"I wasn't listening." He seemed to be considering something very carefully, staring at his hand with almost hilarious intensity. "Do you think our hand bones have their own thoughts? Like, what if all of our bones had their own brains?" Richie stared at him blankly, laughter bubbling in his chest.

"I think it's time for bed, Mikey." He led him away by his elbow, looking back at Steve, who was looking at them as they left, a new smoke between his fingers, and a new line between his eyebrows. "Don't tell anyone he's a queer, got it?" Steve nodded, Richie stopped again, looking back in a way he hoped looked at least a little less desperate than he was feeling at the moment. "If you're into dick, I'll gladly carve another notch in the bedpost for you. Keep in touch, Stevie." He slid the cap off the bottle in his pocket as they walked away, taking another long drink, not even cringing this time. The burn was a sick comfort. "Fuck, that's awful. Let's go home, Mikey." Mike grabbed for the bottle, sipping at it almost absently, the same way he held a cigarette. Careless.

"Stan is a fucking idiot."

"I know, giving up all this?" He felt disgusting, he craved something stronger than the liquor in that bottle, or the weed in his pocket, he wanted something that would hurt him, hurt Stan, make him feel guilty and lonely and terrified. He hated himself for thinking it, but it was true.

"I'm not kidding," Mike frowned at him. "You're really fun, Richie, and based on what El said in that diner, he needs fun."

"He needs a therapist, Mike. He's destroying himself, I'm not the right person to help with that. I'd probably make it worse, if I'm honest, I'm probably the most toxic, poisonous person in the world. I don't mean to be, but I'm not well, like, mentally." They rounded the corner. "I'm not relationship material, I'm a quick fuck in the woods or rough sex in the back of a car material, I don't usually even get, like, a bed. Most people I get with are one time deals, I don't even remember most of their names. The girls especially, they don't say much past, '_I'm on birth control_' and '_Do you have condoms?_' the guys are usually the weepy ones." He shrugged. "It's just how my momma made me, the absolute cunt."

They were in front of Mike's house, and the lights were on.

"Shit."

-

"Micheal Wheeler, are you high?"

They had broken in through the basement, and tried to camp out down there, pretend they had been there all night, but Karen Wheeler was having none of it.

"No." He actually managed to keep his voice even this time, they had hidden the pot and the vodka inside the coat draped over his arm, spraying each other with old perfume and sucking on breath mints, but the scent of the night clung to them, heavy in their hair, in their skin. They smelled cold, and dirty, like the streets after rain.

"Are you drunk?" She was staring into his red eyes, he kept them focused on her, only wavering when she raised an eyebrow.

"No."

She looked at Richie, who was much better at pretending to be sober, and relaxed.

"Sorry, you know how I get when you don't tell me things, I just get worried, baby." She pulled him into a hug, kissing his hair. She went a little stiff, understanding coating her from head to toe. "You should both get to bed, it's early, and it's summer. Richie's friends probably won't be awake for hours." She sounded a little airier than usual, pretending the fact her son reeked of weed didn't bother her. She had let them have this small rebellion. He would thank her for it, later.

"Goodnight, Auntie." Richie kissed the top of her head, and she smiled a little, despite the fact he smelled exactly like his mother. Her older sister by a year and nine months, he knew he did, he used to bury his face in her scarves when she hugged him, she always smelled like vodka, and a mix of perfumes. _Lily of the Valley, ivory soap, and rain…_

"Sleep well, Richard." She took his hand, squeezing it tightly, and letting him go.

They got upstairs, knocking shoulders and swinging hands close, trying not to wake up Nancy. They both slipped into Richie's room, falling into his bed without taking their shoes off, falling asleep so quickly, exhausted from crying, liquor tugging at their bones, pot clinging to them, until they were out cold.

They woke up hours later, Richie with his head cradled on Mike's chest, Beverly leaning over him.

The first thing he noticed: he was still high as hell and drunk as shit. The second thing he noticed: his bedroom was dazzlingly bright, and there were too many people in it.

"Fuck." He slung an arm over his eyes, shutting them tight. His mouth felt unbearably dry. "Goddamnit." He fumbled for his glasses. "Wake up, Wheeler." He shoved Mike's shoulder, and he jerked awake, blinking blearily. He found his glasses wedged under one of his pillows, they were on top of the blankets, and Mike was redder than usual. Definitely still drunk.

"Fuck," Mike echoed, covering his eyes too. "Goddamnit."

"You two really are related. How fucked up did you get last night?" Mike groaned.

"I think I'm still high." His voice was garbled, drunkenness blending all his words together. Richie took in the faces. Beverly, Stan, and Will fucking Byers of all people. He crawled out of bed, grabbing his meds, for his Borderline, fishing the bottle of vodka out of his jacket, swallowing the little pills with liquid fire.

"You're definitely still high, you have a lower tolerance than me, and we smoked like a gram this morning."

"I'm so fucking hungry." Beverly laughed, pulling him out of bed, still in those fucking khakis, the perfect proper child, except for his blood shot eyes, and his frowning mouth. Richie wanted to destroy him.

"Richie, you're such a little devil." He grinned, spreading his arms like he was offering her a hug or something, still holding the neck of the frosted bottle like it was a goddamn trophy.

"I corrupt the incorruptible, just ask Stan." He winked, at him, watching him go red. Mike shook his head.

"Friends don't lie, that smile is a lie, Richard." He dropped his arms, taking another swig of liquor and shoving it under the bed.

"Just because you saw my deepest darkest secrets doesn't mean I'm gonna listen to you or something, tough luck, Cuzzy-Wuzzy, welcome to the _You Can't Save Richie_ Club, you, Stan, and Bev meet once a month." Mike had the nerve to frown, looking up at him almost angrily.

"It's true, he doesn't give a shit about his future or anything." His voice was dry, and cold as ice.

"That's real rich coming from you, Staniel." Richie didn't even want to look at him, he knew he was being a dick, but he couldn't just stop being in love with him. No matter how hard he tried. Stan clearly wasn't opposed to the idea of him, at least, he wasn't opposed to his body. He couldn't figure him out. "Trying on deaths for size? Maybe we could go out and shop for coffins, make a whole day out of it."

"Beep beep, Richie." Beverly was looking at him like he was some kind of particularly idiotic worm, angry and pitying at the same time. She looked tired.

"Sorry." He looked at Will, moving a little closer just to watch him blush. "Hey, Byers." He went a disarmingly adorable shade of red, looking at his lips instead of his eyes.

"Hi, Richie." His fingers were knitting together nervously, and he felt the sudden urge to ignore Mike, to ignore the little seed of something beautiful, to crush it underfoot and take Will and leave him in this shithole town, absolutely ruined. He felt a lot of urges. He gave in to most of them.

"We didn't really get a chance to talk yesterday, how's the Losers Club treating you?" He flushed further, down his neck, up his ears, his hands curling around each other so tightly his knuckles went white.

"They're all very nice, nicer than you, for the most part." Richie grinned, glancing at Stan, who was glaring intently, furious and clearly aware of it. He leaned in close, dropping his voice lower, watching Will melt around every word, ignoring the boy glaring daggers into his back.

"I'm really much nicer than they are, maybe I can show you how..." He grabbed his wrist in a way he hoped was subtle enough Mike wouldn't notice, fingers loosening immediately, sliding to the ends of his fingers, lingering for a tiny, precious moment before vanishing into his pocket. "..._nice_, I can be, when I'm all alone." Will looked like he was about to pass out, staring at his fingertips with his lips parted and his eyes fluttering.

"...alright." His voice was a little breathless, his face glowing crimson.

Richie fell back into his normal bravado, ignoring Stan's dazed stare and Beverly's curious eyes, her lips tilted into an amused smile. Mike looked like he was in dreamland, drifting from reality to reality like he was jumping between clouds.

_Good fucking morning, Hawkins._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> richie is gonna be a goddamn disaster for most of this fic, all of them are, but specifically stan and richie are gonna be Going Thru It. plot might happen soon, idk if i actually want it 2 yet, you kno? i just wanna write nonsense relationship drama lmao , i just kissed the girl i like so im still kinda giddy and soft 
> 
> what povs would u be interested in seeing?
> 
> i hope u liked it :)


	6. will byers is a lovesick fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Stan hatch a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: discussion of self-harm. 
> 
> song for the chapter is happiness is a butterfly by lana del rey. 
> 
> the era appropriate song for the chapter is i love playing with fire by the runaways.

Richie was nothing like Mike, he was loud, and obnoxious, and unhealthy, with priorities that went upside down and backwards, and friends he fucked, and flirtation flowing off his tongue with every other breath. But, he was interested, and Will was just about ready to take what he was given.

Sure, he was different, but they had the same black hair, the same black eyes, the same lips, the same freckles. They were close enough, that if he squinted, he could call them identical. It would be enough. It had to be enough, it was all he could get.

Richie was sitting in the kitchen, cooking something that was decidedly _not_ breakfast for Mike, who was apparently starving to death, still fucked up from their impulsive adventure just hours earlier. He was pretty, similar to how Mike was. He was taller too, with curlier hair, and darker shadows under his eyes, pink high up on his cheekbones and on the tip of his nose instead of red all over, holding his liquor much better than Mike ever could. Red seemed to be the colour of the day, his morbid shirt was red, Mike's entire face was red, Will was constantly red, whenever Richie looked at him, his face went hot.

He knew he wasn't exactly being subtle, leaning on the edge of the counter, staring at Richie like he had never seen anything like him before, all curious and pink, chin cupped in his hand.

"He's a liar, you know. He likes to play with people." Stan spoke beside him. He was a mystery, the beautiful boy Richie had said he was in love with, voice steady when he said it, like he had loved him for a very long time, and he wasn't planning to do anything about it. They didn't seem right for each other, not even a little. Both toxic, chaotic forces, Stan always calm and steady, Richie as temperamental as the ocean, as flighty and wild as the stars. They should've hated each other, opposing natures, opposing values, even their appearances were opposed. Stan with his warm skin and light brown curls and his yellow eyes, Richie with pale skin and strong, heavy features. Full lips, dark eyes, curls as black as ink. They didn't match.

"I don't care. I'll take what I can get." Will glanced at Mike, who was pressing his fingertips to the window, transfixed, and felt himself get all gooey and soft. "He's close enough."

"You and Mike-?" Stan seemed almost empathetic, a little judgemental at the same time.

"No, there's nothing between us, I'm just an idiot who can't love properly. It's no one's fault but mine, really. He doesn't see me like that." Will looked at Richie again, watching him laugh at something Bev was whispering, pulling her into a kiss. He didn't look away from them. It was interesting, his long fingers gentle, one hand cupping her jaw, the other in her short hair. She curled her hands into fists around his jacket, leaning back to lick a stripe up his cheek, laughing when he shrieked.

"Beverly!" He grabbed her jaw, smearing something red, tomato sauce, on her cheek. She went still, a dangerous light in her sky blue eyes. Her and their other friend, Bill looked alike, both red haired, skinny, pale and freckled. He wondered if Stan noticed, when him and Bill-

He stopped the thought in its tracks. It was none of his business what Stan thought of when him and Bill were fucking.

"It's easier that way." Stan said beside him, looking impossibly small. He had to be at least six feet tall, but when he looked at Richie with those calculating, icy eyes, he seemed to shrink to nothing. "Feelings make it harder, if it's just about appearances, it doesn't get complicated. It sounds so fucking shallow when I say it out loud, but it's true. Look at him and Bev," His voice was a low whisper, his words as cold as his eyes. He sounded almost heartless. Richie had his glasses on the end of his nose, doing some kind of incomprehensible impression, Bev giggling a little, sitting on the counter with her arms over his shoulders, legs around his waist. "They don't hurt each other, not like I could hurt him. Bill and I are just as shallow, it’s just _convenience_, and it's the healthiest relationship I have in my life."

"Maybe I should just pick you instead," Will said, partly just to watch him go red, considering him. He looked like someone you'd see on magazine covers, with his sharp jaw, his toffee-coloured curls, the golden undertones in his skin, his amber eyes, his pink lips. He was too pretty to feel real, too perfect. A painting of the devil, a cruelty behind his eyes, curling his lips. Will knew he wasn't really all that cruel, but he looked it. "You're pretty, and clearly we would understand each other relatively well." He knew compared to Stan he wasn't much to look at, straight brown hair, murky eyes that wouldn't decide if they were green or brown, skinny and twitchy and shaky and unbearably small.

"I-" He was red, all the way down his neck, eyes wide, lips parted slightly.

"Too bad I have a thing for dark eyes and freckles." Stan laughed a little, looking at him curiously, his expression softening.

"Too bad."

"Your eyes are very beautiful though, kind of terrifying." When he had first seen him in the diner they were striking, all he could focus on. He hadn't noticed his hollow cheeks, even the bloody bandages. He had been too busy looking at his eyes, cruel and sharp, yellow as the sun, cold as ice. "You're too pretty to touch, sorry Stan."

"Like you're less pretty somehow, Byers." He felt his face get hot.

"I'm not like you. You're intimidating, that's how beautiful you are. I was scared of you. It's like you aren't even real." He went pink again, looking down at him curiously.

"No one's ever said that to me."

"It's true." Stan got closer, he smelled like cigarettes, and something familiar, something sweet and floral, a sharp metal underneath it all. Lavender and blood.

"I have an idea, alright?" Will felt his heartbeat pick up, the impossible, beautiful boy in front of him smiled. It was like sun splitting the clouds. "Mike doesn't know he wants you, but he definitely does, he's not an idiot. We just have to make him realize."

"Stan, this doesn't seem very smart, what about Richie?"

"You don't need someone you can pretend with, Will. Close enough shouldn't be good enough, you deserve the boy you really want."

"With all the messy stuff you said was a waste of time? All the feelings and the hurt?"

"That's part of it, if it matters, it might hurt you. That's why it's so easy to stop caring, if you don't get messy, you can't get hurt." His voice was a low whisper, his mouth so close Will could feel his breath on the shell of his ear. "Does Mike get jealous easily?"

"Very easily." Will whispered back, and Stan smiled a cold, terrifying smile

"Perfect."

"What are you planning?" Stan considered him in a way that seemed almost predatory, goosebumps rose up and down his spine.

"We are going to make Wheeler jealous." Will raised an eyebrow.

"And how do you plan to do that?" He got a strange light in his eyes, moving so he was resting his chin on the counter, fingers brushing his.

"Can you blush on command? Or will I have to help you?" Will shrugged.

"I've never tried to blush before, you'll probably have to make me." Stan leaned closer, shoulders and all, looking at his muddy green eyes with his sharp yellow ones, a smile that was flirtatious and oddly chilling spread over his pink lips.

He whispered it, leaning so close Will could see the twin, microscopic flecks of green in his eyes. He whispered something filthy in his ear, and Will felt his entire face get hot, he shifted a little, a nervous laugh punching past his lips, turning into small giggles.

"Stan, you can't just-"

"It worked, didn't it? You're all red and adorable." Another flush of heat, this time just over his cheekbones.

"I'm not adorable." Stan shook his head, grabbing his hand over the countertop.

Will tried to ignore the bandages when his sleeve pushed up, but the scars on his hands, curling around his wrists, were horrific. Red slashes that looked entirely intentional wrapping around his fingers, burns covering his palms, the white bandage, the gauze, was more red than it had been the day before, like he had hurt himself even more.

"Do they hurt?" He whispered, eyes flicking up from his scarred hand to his cold eyes.

"Yes." His voice was small.

"You should change the bandage." Stan looked nervous, skittish almost.

"I know. We didn't bring anything to do it properly, Bill assumed I would pack it. Like I would ever intentionally pack fucking bandaids." Will grabbed his hand, rubbing his thumb over his scarred knuckles. Stan's skin was hot, like touching an open flame.

"Mike, where's your first-aid kit?" Mike didn't move, he had already been staring at them, his eyes were hard. Unreadable.

"In the linen closet." Will didn't let go of his hand, ignoring the stares he got from the other teenagers, determination coursing through him. He lead him to the bathroom, sitting him on the edge of the bathtub. The linen closet was tucked behind the bathroom door, and the first-aid kit was a big, bright red bag. He took it down, looking at Stan carefully.

"Is this alright?" He nodded.

"Normally Bill does it, but this will drive Richie fucking insane." He pulled off his shirt. He had a layer of scars up his side, unhealed, jagged cuts, crimson and almost bloody, dotted his skin. Just like Richie. Will studied the bandages. They wrapped his forearms, then his arms in two separate sections. He decided to start with his forearms. Pulling off the bloody bandages, trying to keep his expression neutral when he saw Stan's cuts.

He still felt himself go still when he laid eyes on the ruined skin. _Ruined_ was the only word for it, it looked like he had put his arm through a meat grinder. His mind went blank, staring little beads of blood on shredded skin, shaky lines crisscrossing until there was barely an inch of untouched flesh. He had a beauty-mark on one of the spots that was clean, a little sunspot. Will felt his throat close, voice thick when he spoke, like he was about to cry.

"Do you want to put water on it before I dump on rubbing alcohol?" Stan was stiff, turning over Will's hand, fingertips ghosting over the little half-moon cuts where Mike's nails had dug into his skin.

"What is this from?"

"When we saw- when me and Mike saw the clown, we were holding hands, and this happened." Stan looked concerned, a line between his eyebrows.

"It's not healing." It wasn't a question.

"No. It isn't." He ran a cloth under warm water, lightly wiping the blood from Stan's arm, taking the bottle of rubbing alcohol out. "This is gonna hurt like a bitch." He let it trickle out slow, dripping over Stan's arm. He flinched violently.

"Fuck!" He had tears in his eyes, face screwed up with pain.

"I warned you." They both jumped when the door opened, Richie poking his head in.

"You alright, Stanny? You yelled." Stan wiped at his eyes with his still bandaged hand, looking at Richie distantly, cold and remote.

"I'm fine, Rich." Will wiggled the bottle in his hand, a wordless explanation.

"He didn't pack any, and if this gets infected his entire arm is fucked." Richie looked at his arm, black eyes going all shiny when he saw it properly, like he was gone, the same vacant look people get when they're daydreaming.

"Oh." Stan grabbed the bottle, dumping more on his arm, cringing again, biting at his lip and tearing up.

"Wrap me up, William." Will smiled, looking up at Stan from where he was kneeling on the floor, thinking of his nasty comment earlier, his cheeks getting hot.

"Yes, sir." This time Stan was the one who turned red. Will wrapped his arm in clean gauze, moving on to the rest of his arm. The higher up cuts were just long, vertical scars, one recent cut gaping open, extending from his wrist, through the inside of his elbow, almost to his armpit. He cleaned it out with the washcloth, then the alcohol, wrapping it clean.

His other arm was in a similar state, slightly different, an orderly disaster.

"I'm left-handed." He explained, this arm covered in intersecting, neat ladders of cuts and scars, every bit of skin covered. He seemed to be taking better care of these cuts. Will wiped him clean, making small talk like this was a normal situation, like Richie hadn't taken one look at his neat right arm and left the bathroom, making a strangled sound in the back of his throat. He washed it out, ignoring the string of curses that fell past Stan's lips.

"How far are we taking this thing?" Will asked him, wrapping more clean gauze around the top half of his arm, avoiding his icy eyes.

"What do you mean?" Stan was playing coy, a tiny, impish smile curling his lips.

"How far are you willing to go to make Mike jealous?” Will whispered, pausing, considering his words. "Richie too, I guess, even though he'd probably crawl into bed with you right now if you asked." Stan frowned.

"It's Richie, of course he would." He seemed to be puzzling something out, considering it for a moment before he spoke. "How far are you comfortable taking it?"

"Well, I don't want to fuck or something." Will laughed, keeping his voice low, and his laughter loud. "We can kiss, if you want."

"I'm open to anything, we don't even have to discuss it, if you want to try something, just try it." He let out a laugh, but it seemed forced. "Think of me as a willing body. If you're up for it, so am I." Will's felt himself get all soft and nervous.

"We should try it before we do it in front of other people, right?" His voice was small, ragged.

"Right..." Stan was just as timid, leaning forward, until their lips were almost brushing. Will would have to close the gap.

He pressed their lips together.

There wasn't magic, it was all physical sensation. Stan's mouth working against his, a burning hand at his jaw, slowly smoothing circles into his skin, parting lips and curious tongues. His eyes slipped shut, his hands on Stan's knees, pushing himself closer, almost lost in the mindless locking and unlocking, the blankness a strange comfort.

They both jumped apart when the bathroom door swung open, not fast enough, based on how quickly all the blood left Beverly's face.

"Holy shit you move fast, Stan. One conversation and you've got your tongue down his throat."

He ignored her, pulling on his shirt and helping Will put the first-aid kit away, everything finding its place. She followed them downstairs, a smug little smile on her lips.

She pinched Stan's cheek once they were in the kitchen, beaming, she seemed relatively harmless, but her habit of blurting out private information was getting old.

"These little lovebirds were making out in the bathroom, our Stanny really is a little slut." Mike dropped the fork he was holding, the clatter made him feel oddly guilty. His black eyes were wide, looking at Stan with an expression so full of hatred it was almost funny, especially since he was still so clearly high. Will ignored Richie's stunned stare, sitting across from Mike, smiling shyly up at him, coy. He was sick of being harmless. Sick of being a child. He wanted him to see him, really see him, wanted to lay himself bare, scream at him about his hatred and his fear and his want. _God, did he want_.

"What did I miss?" He picked up the fork, spearing what seemed to be a chunk of tomato, sticking it between his lips. He ran his tongue over the tines, licking them clean, Mike's eyes trained on the innocent, careful movement. He should view it differently now, if what they had just done meant anything. "Hello?" He waved the fork, stabbing it into the pasta so it stood straight up. "Earth to Mike..." He singsonged, raising an eyebrow.

"Sorry, just- surprised, I guess."

"Why? You know I'm a fag, and Stan is gorgeous."

"I half thought you would go for Richie, if I'm honest." Mike said, and Will had a stroke of genius, glancing over at him and wrinkling his nose a little.

"Not my type." Mike glanced at Stan, who was looking particularly pretty by the window, his light curls caught in the sunlight, his honey coloured eyes flooded with colour, cheeks pink, lips pulled tight. He looked remote, and cold, and beautiful. Will sighed a little. "I want to draw him."

"Will, him and Richie have a really complicated soap opera thing going on, and Bill-"

"I know, Mike. This isn't about feelings or anything." He gave that small, coy smile, innocent and pure as untouched snow. "I'm just having fun, it's not like I'm ever going to have this many cute, queer boys to mess around with again."

"Mess around with?" Will rolled his eyes, dropping his voice into a whisper.

"I don't want to be a virgin forever, Micheal." Colour flooded his cheeks. "I'm not a robot or something, I want to be touched." Mike looked a little sick, staring down at the spaghetti miserably.

"I didn't think of it like that."

"I don't usually think of anyone like that, especially not my friends. Don't worry, Mike." Will grabbed his hand, squeezed it, and let it go. "I won't tell you about it if it's too weird, I mean, you didn't tell me when you and El first-"

"That's because we didn't, Will." Mike looked all pink, avoiding his eyes. "I told you, all we ever did was kiss."

"You really are a queer, huh?" His black eyes snapped up, face immediately burning crimson. "No judgement, it's just, Eleven is adorable."

"She's also a lesbian, Will."

"You're telling me that you wanted to do things like that with her? Don't blame that all on her, Mike, takes two to not... tango?" He snorted, and Will felt his heart swell with warmth.

"You might be right, I don't know."

"Two years." Will looked at him, smile vanishing. "You know, Mike."

"I'm too fucking high for this." He dug into the pasta again, stabbing at it almost angrily. "What do you mean Richie isn't your type? You used to have a crush on me and we're practically identical."

"Too close, Mike. He looks too much like you, it would be weird." Will paused, looking him carefully, considering. “I guess I could try, I don’t think he’d be opposed to it.”

“Try?” Mike’s sounded like he was choking.

“Yeah,” Will leaned closer, looking up at him through his eyelashes, feeling his cheeks get hot. “Try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope u liked the chapter , its kinda messy, but this entire fic is messy so like :)  
im writing a stozier oneshot rn, and a little side story about bill and stan that is tbh mostly just smut lmao, i love it tho.  
the girl (gennie) got absolutely smashed and started texting me last night and she just ‘yr so prettty nd also u kiss nice’ so ahhhhhhhh she’s the cutest ever im so 
> 
> anyway!!!! i hope u liked it, ill be on again soon with another chapter and/or that oneshot! thank u for reading.


	7. mike wheeler is a hot mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike and Steve have a heart to heart. Billy Hargrove comes bearing bad news, a new enemy emerges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR SEASON THREE SPOILER WARNING!!! I wasn’t sure if I was going to go this route, but the two worlds have to work together if the characters are all going to work, IT has not been forgotten about, there’s just more shit to deal with. It is NOT cannon compliant, but it will follow rough outlines of the plot. This chapter is a monster, sorry for any spelling mistakes or grammatical errors, I definitely missed some shit this time. 
> 
> songs for the chapter are venice bitch by lana del rey and each time you fall in love by cigarettes after sex. era appropriate song for the chapter is that joke isn’t funny anymore by the smiths.

It took a few more hours for the fogginess in his head to dissipate, and now that it was gone,he missed the sensation. It was easier like that, head empty, just letting words trickle out like water, all of the aching heaviness in his skull cloudy and forgotten after a bottle touched his lips. Now, he was painfully sober, and he couldn't look Steve Harrington in the eyes.

Richie told him what he had said, memories already faded inside him, and every time Steve glanced at him, he felt embarrassed, pathetic, and so small. He kept catching himself staring at Will, and turning away, looking at Harrington across from him at the table, and glaring, because he wouldn't stop staring with that look on his face. Understanding, like all the pieces were falling into place. He hated it.

Stan was sitting beside him, avoiding Richie. Will was too close to Richie's side, all of them shoved into the diner seats, Bev and Richie were practically in each other's laps, and Steve was separate from all of them, sitting across from Mike, on Beverly's other side.

"Stan, you should eat something. They have super plain broths, if you want something easy to keep down, get the soup." Mike kept his voice low, pointedly ignoring the way Stan went stiff when he looked at him, like he wasn't seeing him at all, like he was looking at fucking Richie. That's how all of the Losers looked at him, like he was someone else.

"Yeah, that sounds good." He smiled, but it didn't touch his eyes. "I'll try."

Mike wondered, not for the first time, why Richie, hell, why Will, had picked Stan. He was beautiful, that was obvious, all cold, sharp lines. Distant and unreachable, all of his icy, golden features complementing each other. He looked like the boys on magazine covers. Untouchable. Beyond that, he didn't see any appeal. Stan wasn't alive in the way Richie was, he was muted, almost grey, drawn out and drained, shadows under his eyes. He was close enough now for Mike to pinpoint what was making him so uncomfortable. He smelled like flowers, and something metallic, biting, rotten. Like lavender and blood.

"No problem," He considered himself, then decided it couldn't hurt. He kept his voice small. "I couldn't eat after... after the Upside Down. I needed control, I think." Stan froze, looking at him without that film of ice covering his eyes, like he was really seeing him, instead of someone else's ghost. "I get it, I promise. It's hard." He actually turned pink, colour rising high into his hollow cheeks.

"I didn't know you-"

"No one really knew. Except Will," He paused, looking at Stan, who was impossibly fucking gorgeous, and forcing a smile. "And you, I guess." He looked away, focusing on the menu so familiar he could almost say he'd memorized it, anything so he wouldn't have to look at Steve.

"Are you alright, Mike?" Beverly asked, her chin cradled in her hands, pretty, with her red curls and the smear of lipstick on her mouth.

"Headache, other than that, I'm fine." He wished Steve fucking Harrington hadn't showed up at the front door at noon, asking for Mike and Richie so they could talk, and Nancy hadn't lead him into the kitchen, where Beverly Marsh, Stanley Uris, and Will Byers were all laughing at something he had said, he couldn't even remember it now, and Richie was cleaning up the spaghetti they had made for breakfast, and Steve hadn't just looked at him, and looked at Will, who was standing beside him, and Mike's skin hadn't been crawling he was so uncomfortable. He wished it hadn't happened. He wished he could be anywhere but that diner, anywhere but beside Stanley Uris and across from Steve Harrington.

"Awe, Mikey-Boy has a headache?" Richie laughed, detangling his hand from Beverly's, looking at Stan, expression going dark. "Is that why Stan was whispering in your ear?"

"Fuck off, Richie." They both looked so angry, clouds sweeping in, a winter storm. "It's not like I fucking belong to you, relax."

"Both of you need to calm down, you're gonna scare Steve away." Beverly said, waving for a waitress, Danielle, he recognized her from Chemistry, they had been partners. She had asked him if he really had a girlfriend, and frowned when he said yes. She was pretty, in a dark, strange sort of way, her black hair was long and poker straight, she had big green eyes, and lips she usually covered in dark lipstick, like El used to.

"Hey, Wheeler." She was blushing, tapping the table with a black fingernail, bangs cutting across her forehead.

"Hey, Dani." She flushed even more. "How has your summer been?"

"Boring, so far at least." She winked. Oh. "What can I get you to drink?"

"Coffee?" She jotted it down, resting her pen between her big, dark lips when she finished, parting them a little. She was flirting with him, why was she flirting with him?

"And for you?" She turned to Stan, and took everyone else's orders. "I'll be back with that in a second, don't go anywhere." She looked at him, another smile, like they should be laughing at some inside joke. He smiled, and she somehow managed to blush even more.

"Who was that?" Steve asked him, Mike didn't look at him, staring at the tabletop.

"Danielle, my chemistry partner. She's real sweet." He glanced over at the kitchen doors, the ones she had slipped through.

"No kidding." Beverly said, voice dry. "She seemed sweet as sugar."

"Real _sweet_." Richie drawled, eyebrows raising. "She seemed fucking groovy, right Will?"

"Totally tubular." Will said, voice all small and clipped. Fuck.

"Fuck you guys." Mike groaned, immediately faking a smile when Danielle came out with their drinks.

"You didn't want cream and sugar, right Mikey?" She brushed his fingers when she gave him his coffee.

"No, thanks." She gave everyone else their drinks, mostly water, Stan getting peppermint tea again, Will getting a huge mug of hot chocolate.

"We should hang out again, before school starts again." She said, looking at him with big, heavy green eyes. Almost like Will's. She had her eyelashes all curled, dark eyeshadow on, thick eyeliner making her look like a punk singer or something.

"Yeah, for sure." She beamed, her teeth all white and pearly. She was pretty, very pretty, and at school she wore all kinds of chains and black clothes, gloomy looking, but now, she was smiling. "Definitely." She put her pen by her lips again, looking at him so carefully, her freckles barely visible under her foundation, her green eyes bright as sunlight.

"What can I get y'all to eat?" They ordered, and she gave him a tiny smile before she left for the kitchen, her lips seemed permanently curled at the corners now, like he had made her fucking day. "I'll be back soon with all your meals." She glanced at Steve, and her smile vanished like it had never existed at all.

"Mikey-Boy go himself a new beard, now that Ellie's out of the picture. That's cold, Wheeler."

"Shut up, Richie."

"We all know you're a queer." Richie said, quiet this time, like he didn't want anyone to hear. "You don't have to pretend like-"

"I can pretend however I feel like pretending, and you aren't gonna stop me. Shut the fuck up." He finally looked at Steve, who looked unreasonably surprised. "And you can stop looking at me like that, just because I said shit I shouldn't have said when I was drunk. You don't know anything about me, stop acting like you finally understand or something. You don't know me."

"I'm sorry, I don't know you?" Steve laughed, humourless. "We need to talk, Mike. Now." He dragged him outside, Will's green gaze following them curiously.

"There's nothing I want to say to you." He spat, and Steve just shook his head, furious.

"Too fucking bad." He pulled him through the doors, watching him pace with a sad sort of look on his face. "What's going on, Wheeler?"

"Nothing!" He snarled. "Nothing is going on, Steve! Can you drop it?" He rolled his eyes. No one listened to him, no one cared when he actually felt like talking about his feelings or whatever. They all just pushed and pushed until they got him to crack.

"Clearly that isn't true." Steve was looking at him with those stupid, pretty eyes, his lips all pink and fucking pretty. He was so pretty, it should be illegal for boys to look like that.

"You wouldn't get it." Mike looked away from his mouth, hating himself even more when he started shaking.

"Woah, kid, I definitely would." Steve grabbed his shoulders. "In case you missed it, I'm kind of sweet on Billy Hargrove." Mike choked, betrayal and horror rushing through him.

"The Billy Hargrove that beat the shit out of you?" He could feel himself getting angry. "You traitorous scum, what about Max, or Lucas? He tried to run them over with his car! He's racist, and he's mean-"

"And for some reason I care about him, he's not racist, he was trying to protect Max from his racist, piece of shit dad. His dad beats the hell out of him all the time, Mike."

He scoffed, glaring with even more disgust. "That's not an excuse, he was a _monster_ last year, Steve. He didn't even say sorry."

"Enough about Hargrove, we were talking about you. What the fuck is happening, Wheeler?" Mike sighed, wishing he had something to do with his hands. Even more horror shot through him. He wanted a _cigarette_. Richie was going to kill him, absolutely destroy him, because Mike was itching for a cigarette and something harder, the fiery vodka burning his insides clean.

"Do you have a smoke?" Steve looked at him like he was personally offended.

"When did you start smoking?" Mike shrugged, taking it from Steve's hand, lighting it more easily than he thought he would. Richie used a cheap plastic lighter, shaped like an eraser. _It's better for throwing punches, you won't fuck up your knuckles._ Steve had a fat zippo, all silvery. He fidgeted with it, sucking on the smoke, looking at the end of it, sinking down so he was sitting on the curb. Harrington sat down beside him, taking the lighter and looking at him with those pretty brown eyes.

"I think I might have a crush on Will." He said, hating himself for crying, hating his little, choked voice. "I think I've always liked him like that."

"Well, shit, little Wheeler, I could've told you that." Mike glared at him with watery eyes.

"I thought El was enough, I thought if I did everything right, like they did in the movies, I could make it go away." He laughed, humourless and cold. "I guess he didn't want to try that route, 'cause he was kissing _Stan_ in my bathroom this morning."

"The skinny kid with the scary eyes?" Mike nodded, curling in on himself, forcing the cigarette between shaking lips, wishing he could just burn, just disappear. "What did he say? Did you guys talk about it?"

"He said he wasn't a robot, that he wanted to be touched, like I didn't know that, like I'm not constantly aware of him, like I don't fucking revolve around him. I try not to touch him because I feel like such a freak, I feel disgusting." Steve pulled him into his chest, and he shattered, clinging to his shirt and just sobbing, like a faggot. He hated himself. He was disgusting, he didn't deserve Will, he didn't deserve anyone. "I'm so stupid, Steve."

"It'll be alright, kid." He ran a hand through his hair, and Mike shuddered, leaning away and sucking on the smoke, blowing it away, praying his mom wouldn't smell it on him. "I promise you're not a freak, I mean, I'm not a freak-"

"You like Billy Hargrove, I think you are a freak." Mike said, and Steve just laughed, knocking shoulders with him.

"Do you want to go back in soon?" Mike froze, his cheeks were still wet, he was breathing ragged and his face was hot.

"Give me a minute." He waved the cigarette, like that was the only reason. Steve slumped against the wall, staring up at the clear blue of the sky like it was something to look at. "Me and Will both had crushes on you when we were younger." Mike said, probably the wrong thing to say, based on the way his eyes went wide. "It was like hero worship, I think."

"Me?" Steve looked down at Mike.

"I used to look at you and wonder if I looked enough like my sister to have a chance." Mike tried to sound like he didn't care, but he choked on another breath, his tears coming back. "It was so stupid, it was all bullshit." He laughed, but it sounded almost hysterical.

"You do look like her." Steve said softly, and Mike felt his heart stutter in his chest, cheeks flushing hot.

"Fifteen year old Mike is melting." He laughed, and swallowed hard, looking away from him, at the trees and the sky. "All the shit with the Upside Down started after I realized I liked boys, when Will went missing. I was barely fucking fifteen. I can't believe it's been two years, and so much has changed." He took another puff off the smoke, looking at Steve, who was staring at him in a worrying way. "I thought it was my fault, I thought it was karma taking him from me. It felt like just because I got that much time with him, because I wanted him in ways I shouldn't, I was being punished or something."

"You're not evil for feeling like this, Mike. It's just how you're wired." He pulled him into another hug, letting him rest his head on his chest, arms solid and warm around him. "Since I was your sexual awakening-"

"You were not." Mike laughed, shoving at his chest, a smile cutting across his lips. "You were like, my third crush."

"Who was the first?" Mike wanted to hide, cheeks hot, the cigarette finding his lips again.

"Han Solo." Steve laughed, and Mike managed a smile. "Then it was Jim Morrison."

"Then me?" Steve raised his eyebrows.

"Fuck off." Mike ground out his cigarette on the concrete, letting Steve pull him close again.

"No, it's adorable, really."

"You're an asshole." He smiled, wiping what was left of his tears from his eyes, kicking his legs out in front of him, leaning back against the wall, training his eyes on the sky. "An irredeemable asshole."

"Maybe, but I also got you to tell me what the hell was going on with you, so I'll count this as a win." Mike rolled his eyes, Steve was cute, but he was also annoying as hell.

"How did I ever want to date you?"

Steve winked at him. "I guess you just had good taste." He stood, offering a hand to help Mike to his feet, walking back into the diner together with matching red eyes and little smiles.

"I think you mean atrocious taste, Harrington." They slid back into the booth, the food had been cooling on the table in their absence. Mike stole a fry off Steve's plate, sticking his tongue out at him when he glared.

"You're an animal, little Wheeler."

"Nancy's out of town for the weekend." Steve raised an eyebrow.

"And?" Mike rolled his eyes.

"You can actually come to movie night! Her and Jonathan usually aren't home anyway, so I don't know why you avoid my house like the goddamn plague, but whatever. She's gone and you don't have to avoid her."

"The talk helped, I'm guessing?" Will asked, a little crease between his eyebrows. He had pink in his cheeks, and his eyes looked so green in the bright sunlight, Mike felt like he was falling, drifting maybe, like a leaf in autumn.

"Yeah." Mike glanced at Steve, kicking him under the table. "It helped."

"Fuck! Stop the violence, I surrender." Mike grinned, picking at his own fries absently, it still felt like a shiny, pointed ball of lead slipping down his throat, even now, even though he was technically recovered. He could force it down easier, but he got no pleasure eating. Not anymore. It was always a chore, something necessary to survive, never a thing he could find joy in. "Mike and I had a very fascinating conversation about Han Solo actually."

"Steve!" Mike glared, basically dismantling his burger, taking out the meat, the cheese, leaving in all the vegetables. Lettuce, tomato, the onion went with the meat, Will watched him nervously. "That stays between me, and you, alright?" He snorted, shaking his head.

"Jim Morrison!" He cried, shaking with laughter.

"You wanna talk about embarrassing crushes, how about you and Billy fucking Hargrove." Steve froze.

"Traitorous bastard."

"You're the traitor, that guy is an asshole." Steve grinned, trying to look angry and failing. Will was gaping like a fish.

"_Billy Hargrove?_" He echoed, voice soaked in disgust. "Seriously Steve?"

"You have to admit he's hot." He said, and Will raised an eyebrow.

Him and Mike spoke almost in unison. _"Of course he's hot."_

"But he's an asshole." Will said.

"A monster." Mike repeated. "Literally the worst person in Hawkins."

"He tried to run us over with his car."

"He almost beat you to death."

"He's an absolute bastard to Max all the time."

"He keeps trying to sleep with my mom." Mike snorted, and Steve went bright red.

"We've established I have shitty taste, boys." He glared. "Can you stop?"

There was a low rumble outside the diner, familiar and deep enough it hit Mike's bones.

"Speak of the devil." He sighed, looking out the window when the rumble cut off, Billy getting out of his camaro. He was gorgeous, hair all perfect and windblown, arms bare and tanned and crossed over his chest, he was like something out of a daydream. Mike hated him.

"How do we know this guy?" Richie asked, squinting at him through the window. "The Greek god looking motherfucker?"

"He's Max's stepbrother." Steve said.

"Her super hot, super mean stepbrother." Mike said, flushing when Will stared at him. "What? It's true." Then he came through the doors, and made a beeline directly for Steve goddamn Harrington.

"Harrington." He leaned on the table, smelling of cologne and cigarettes and pool-water-chlorine.

"Hagrove." It was like Steve had been possessed by the ghost of Hawkins past, asshole Steve, overprotective of Nancy and so angry all the time, taking over. He was leaning, relaxed. Too relaxed. Mike picked up his coffee, and took a warm, bitter swallow.

"What do you want, Billy?"

"If I said just to keep you company would you believe me, Wheeler?" He leaned in so close, trying to intimidate him. _Not happening._ "I'm here to talk to all of you brats. It's more Upside Down shit." Mike felt all the blood leave his body, pooling on the floor, it felt like the sky was falling, the world crumbling under his feet.

He managed to move over, shoving Stan when he did it.

"Sit down." Will looked like he was absolutely terrified, Stan, Bev, and Richie all staring at Billy like he was some puzzle that needed solving. "What happened?"

Billy swallowed.

"I was driving home last night around five in the morning, and something jumped out of the bushes and almost hit my car, I pulled over to see what it was, a puddle of some moving black and red goo that had blood and bones and shit in it, and I touched it like a goddamn idiot." He turned over his wrist, and all of the veins climbing his arm were black, black as ink. Mike wanted to puke. "It dragged me into a warehouse and this _thing_, it was made of rats, like melted rats, all raw and bloody, put something in me. Then I fell into the Upside Down, and there was a crowd of other versions of me, and I woke up this morning with black fucking veins."

He had helped them in the fall, accidentally knocking the fridge open during his fight with Steve, taking one look at the demodog, grabbing a crowbar, and helping them rip the Upside Down apart, Mike hadn't forgiven him. Not for what he did to Lucas, to Max, their budding relationship forced into hiding like it was some dirty little secret just because of the colour of his skin. It was bullshit. This was bullshit. But even Billy didn't deserve this.

"Will?" He looked at him, so terrified it almost hurt.

"Yeah?" His voice was small, his eyes were wide and empty, like he left already, like he did when he had those flashbacks.

"That's what you looked like, your veins, when you got possessed. Can you feel him?" He nodded shakily, fingers brushing over the back of his neck. Mike glanced at Billy, focusing on Steve. "He's a spy, he's with the Mind Flayer now."

"But it's supposed to be dead, El killed it when she closed the gate." Steve said, and Billy choked on a laugh.

"That little bitch is tough, but she's not tougher than this thing. Whatever it is, it's building it's got enough power to attack, and based on what it showed me in the Upside Down, it wants Janie." That's what he had taken to calling her now, they were linked in an odd way, whenever El went to hang out at Max's house, she ended up in Billy's room, pouring her heart out about anything in the world. They were almost friends, Mike hated it when they were dating, and he hated it even more now.

"It wants her?"

"It feels really fucking personal, Wheeler. That thing is pissed off." He could feel himself slipping back into a familiar role. Leader. He was the leader of their tiny Party, and he wouldn't let any of them get hurt again, ever. He steeled himself, and sat up a little straighter, pulling out his radio.

"Code red, this is a code red, El, do you copy?"

"I copy." El's small voice on the other end. "What's wrong, Mike? Over." He swallowed.

"Something happened with the Upside Down, we need to gather the rest of the Party. You call Max, Will and I will call Dustin and Lucas, we can meet at the cabin. Over."

"Stay safe Mike, over and out." He looked up, gesturing at their food.

"Clean this shit up, everybody pay, we're leaving. Billy, you can go get the rest of the Losers Club and drive them up to Hop's cabin, Steve, go call Jonathan and Nancy on the payphone, they're working at the _Hawkins Post_, ask for the interns if they can't figure out who you're talking about, tell them I got in an accident or something." He took a breath. "Will, you radio Dustin until he picks up." He did exactly that, both of them standing and throwing cash on the table, repeating an all to familiar mantra.

"Code red, this is a code red, Lucas, do you copy?"

"Code red, this is a code red, Dustin, do you copy?" Until finally Will got through.

"I'm here, I copy. What's wrong? Over." Will's voice was shaking.

"The Upside Down, it did something to Billy. Meet at Hop's cabin. Do you need a ride? Over."

"Yeah, I can bike to wherever you are now, though. Over." Dustin sounded too serious over the radio, voice crackling and harsh.

"Benny's Diner. Over." Will wasn't shaking so badly now.

"Heading over now. Over and out." Mike relaxed for a moment, immediately tensing again, leaving the diner with Will and the Losers to sit outside and wait for Dustin, for Steve to finish the phone calls. 

"Code red, this is a code red, Lucas, do you copy?" He jumped when someone actually spoke.

"I copy. What's wrong? Over."

"More Upside Down shit, we're meeting at Hopper's cabin, do you need a ride? Over."

"Me and Max both do, she's with me. I think she left her radio at home." _Shit_. "We can meet you halfway, where are you? Over."

"Benny's Diner. Over."

"Leaving now. Over." Mike changed the frequency, landing on El's.

"Eleven, this is Mike, do you copy?" He barely had to wait before her voice crackled over him.

"I copy. Over."

"Max left her radio at home, we should be there soon. Over."

"I love you Mike, thank you for keeping us all together. Organized. Over." He felt his cheeks go all pink.

"I love you too, El. Over and out." He let himself relax for a second, running a hand through his hair. Billy's engine roared to life behind him, he turned, not allowing himself even a second to breathe. "You, Stan. Go with Billy, tell him your hotel room numbers, give him the key, whatever. Just get your friends to Hop's cabin." He nodded, lips falling open like he was going to say something. "Go. We don't have time."

"Richie, you and Bev come with me and Will to Steve's house, we started a weapons stockpile in his closet after what happened last Halloween." He glanced at Will, who had huge, empty eyes, lips parted and his hands shaking. "Will?" He didn't respond, so Mike just pulled him into his arms, the same way they did in his bed when they had sleepovers and Will woke up screaming, or crying, or hopelessly numb. It had felt so _familiar_ standing over Richie, climbing into his bed and holding him while he sobbed. "It's not real, Will. you aren't there anymore, you're safe."

"Yes it fucking is, and it's happening all over again. It's gonna take me again, Mike, it's gonna take all of you this time." He was crying, shaking, hands in fists at his sides.

"No. It won't. I won't let it touch you again, Will. Ever." He looked him in the eyes, his watery, bright green eyes. "Crazy together, right?"

"Crazy together." Will echoed, a tiny smile twisting his lips, pinky extended. Mike wrapped his pinky around it, a remnant from the time before, when the monsters didn't win in all their stories.

"I promised, and I'm not planning on leaving you at the mercy of that fucking thing anytime soon." Will laughed, tears gone as quickly as they came, and hugged him again, tucking his head into his shoulder, just letting him breathe. The world wasn't ending at this exact moment, all they could do now was wait. Wait for Steve to finish his phone call, for Dustin to get here, for Max, and Lucas. He just stood, arms wrapped around his boy, ignoring the chill that clung to his skin, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his shoulders, the breath in his lungs. They were still breathing. Everything would be alright.

"Wheeler, we have a problem." The last words he wanted to hear from Steve Harrington.

"Of course we do, what's wrong?"

"Nancy and Jonathan aren't in the office right now, they're investigating some case in town, diseased rats." Mike froze, horror washing over him.

"Billy said that the monster was made of the bodies of dead rats, do you think it's like a plague or something? Like zombies or The Thing? How is it even back now? We closed the gate. El closed it, Hopper said she did, we know she did." Will's took out his sketchbook, flipping from a drawing of either Mike or Richie to a blank page, frantically drawing. "Will...?"

"Give me a second." He let out a breath, sketching the Mind Flayer in heavy charcoal. "What if El closed the gate, and the piece of it, the stuff trapped inside me, never went back through?" He swiped a hand through, tearing out the page and flipping it. "What if when she trapped it in the Upside Down," He planted his hand on the blank, opposite side, a black stain covering what was supposed to be their world. "It hid itself, it bid it's time until it had enough power to take someone, to take Billy the same way it took me? The Mind Flayer isn't stupid, it's smart enough it tricked all of us the first time. The tunnels are still closed, the Upside Down is out of Hawkins, but the Mind Flayer?" He shoved forward the black handprint. "Maybe it never left."

"Richie?" Mike's voice was small, his hands shaking.

"Yeah?"

"Do you have anymore cigarettes?" Beverly offered him one, lighting it with a match. "Thank you."

He didn't know why they were so comforting, they at least made him feel like he was doing something instead of just waiting, just sitting helplessly. He let out a shaky breath.

"You're kind of their leader, aren't you?" She asked, standing beside him. He shook his head.

"We don't have a leader."

Dustin skidded to a stop, looking at the group so seriously, it was out of character, he had always been the goofiest of their friends, always having a joke or quip to make them feel brighter, better. He immediately grabbed Will's arms, looking at him like he was checking him for injuries.

"Are you alright?" Will laughed, nodding almost shyly.

"Surprisingly, it wasn't after me specifically this time." Dustin ruffled his hair, beaming.

"Now that's what we call progress!" He turned to Mike. "What do you need me to do?"

"Wait for Lucas, did you bring anything?"

"Nothing helpful, all the guns and lighters and shit are at Steve's." They had been stockpiling anything they could use to burn monsters, just in case. After a lot of close calls with Dustin's eyebrows, they determined that lighters with hairspray and homemade Molotov cocktails would have to be enough.

"That's where we're headed next, once-"

"We're here!" Max shouted, skating in about ten seconds before Lucas came hurtling toward them on his bike. She had been quicker than him. "What's the battle plan, Wheeler?" She had a bright, impish smile on her face. She was always a chaotic force, and he was glad to have her now, on their side. She was strange, and strong.

"We need the weapons from Harrington's first, everybody in." They all piled into Steve's little BMW.

"Don't scuff the seats, shitheads, or you're all going in the trunk." Mike rode shotgun, Will crammed into the seat beside him. They were sharing a seatbelt, practically in each other's laps. Steve smirked at him, and Mike had the sudden urge to hit him. Will rested his head on his shoulder, and he didn't care if the world was ending, he wouldn't have noticed if the sun fell out of the sky. Will was breathing him in, shoulders relaxing when he got closer, like he felt safe with him or something. He ran a hand through Will's hair, and he looked up at him, he felt his heartbeat pick up.

"You really shouldn't be afraid, it's never coming near you." Mike said, voice hardly a whisper. "You're not getting away from me that easy." Will's eyelashes were golden in the sunlight, long and curled, How had he never noticed?

"I'm not letting it get you either, Wheeler." Will's expression got all hard and icy, determined. "We're killing it for real this time."

They pulled up to Steve's ridiculously huge, eternally empty house, Mike immediately unbuckling, climbing out of the car before it was even done moving. He had a key to Steve's house on his keychain, patterned with little pink stars. He unlocked it, letting everyone in.

"Don't go rooting through my shit!" Steve shouted as they vanished into his house. The house was covered in dust, just a trail from the front door, Steve's shoes, Steve's jackets, dirty dishes in the kitchen, all the dining room chairs dustless, they usually set up base in the kitchen when they were at his place, it felt less haunted than the other rooms, more lived in. The living room was wrapped in plastic, full of untouched books, a tv that only turned on when his parents were home. Twice a year. He swung open the closet beside the basement, looking down at the cloth bags, and the pile of weapons they had gotten together. He watched Richie pick up Steve's bat, smiling wide, deadly.

"What is it with you and baseball bats?" Beverly asked, picking up a gun.

"I was the best batter on my Little League team." Richie said, slinging it over his shoulder, helping them fill up the canvas bags with their makeshift bombs, glass bottles filled with gasoline. He grabbed lighters, at least two dozen, and the little bottles of hairspray. "What are these for?" Lucas grabbed one, popping the cap and grabbing a lighter, spraying, the acrid smell of burning hairspray filling the air, along with a ball of fire. Stan flinched, then looked at his feet, like he was embarrassed or something.

"The monsters don't like fire."

"They really don't like fire." Will said. "That's how they got that thing out of me the first time." He lifted his shirt, the bright red brand standing out sharply on his skin. Mike put a gun in his hands, Will looked up at him nervously.

"Nancy taught me how to shoot, did Jonathan teach you?"

"Yeah." He kept his eyes trained on Mike's collar, holding the gun so carefully, like it would explode if he looked at it funny. "He taught me right after I got back."

"Good. Don't miss." He nodded, meeting his eyes.

"I won't." He was so pretty, even when he was terrified he had a softness to him, a sweetness.

"Who else knows how to shoot a gun?" He gestured to the pile of revolvers, the little bullets in neat packaging beside them. "Grab as much as you can carry, and move it. We have to get to Hopper's."

The closet was empty in minutes, Mike glanced around the empty house, feeling an odd melancholy for his friend. Steve didn't deserve to be so alone. There were no recent pictures on the walls, they were all old family photos, artificial and sickly sweet. Steve's school pictures were framed on the walls, but he looked empty behind all of them. Angry.

"Everyone get to the car." He said, and they listened. Steve was in the garage, emptying his dad's red station wagon, purchased when he was younger, for road trips and camping up north. Then, all the business trips started, and Steve's parents vanished from his life like smoke. They all piled in, Steve stopped him, hand on his chest, offering him the keys to the BMW.

“We need as many vehicles as possible, and I know you can drive this thing, take Will with you.”

He got back in the station wagon and started it up, trunk emptied to make room for more bodies. Richie and Bev sat in the back with Lucas, Max sitting shotgun.

They got in Steve’s car, Mike adjusting the seat and the mirrors, still nervous behind the wheel. He knew he was speeding the whole way to Hopper's, but no one stopped him. The sun was high in the sky, it was one in the afternoon, and all Mike wanted to do was curl up and sleep.

It was exhausting, the worst possible day to have a hangover.

They turned a little too quickly, shooting down the winding dirt road. He could probably drive there with his eyes closed by now, spending long summer days with El under dappled green shadows. They screeched to a stop, the cabin small and foreboding at the same time. How many afternoons had he spent there this summer? Trying to force himself to be something he wasn't, praying that if he kissed her hard enough, he would feel the way he was supposed to.

El stood on the porch with her curly hair tied up, her shirt was obviously one of Hopper's old ones, a big brown flannel thrown over blue shorts and a tank top. Mike lead Bev and Richie through the traps, he didn't even have to look where he was stepping anymore. As soon as he got on the porch she pulled him into her arms, warm and familiar. They had spent so many hours pressed close by now it was comforting just to stand like this, the steady warmth of her body seeping through to him.

"It's alright, Mike. You don't have to take care of everyone. I promise." Her voice was comforting too, always so soft, gentle even. She leaned away, grabbed his hand, and squeezed. "Will?" She looked at him, full of concern, grabbing at his cheek. She wasn't scared to touch him like the others were, like Mike had been. "It's bad?"

"No, not now." She nodded, satisfied.

"Dad isn't home."

"Steve's here, and that's like having a mom around." Dustin said, laughing when Steve gave him the finger from the trunk, bags slung over his shoulder.

"Fuck you guys." There was a low sound in the distance, a familiar rumble.

"Hargrove."

"Wait, my brother is coming?" Max's blue eyes were huge. "Why the hell is he helping?"

"We should wait, explain as a group, it'll be easier once he's here anyways." The Losers were all crammed in the camaro, Billy looked very annoyed, sitting in the front seat, someone's arm a little too close to him. Mike tried to swallow a laugh. It screeched to a stop next to the Wagon, the doors opening immediately.

"That was fucking awful." Eddie said, rubbing at his head, walking toward them until Mike found his voice.

"Stop! Stop walking." He shouted, watching all of them freeze. "There are traps." He walked over very precisely, leading them through to the porch.

"So, is someone going to tell us what the hell is happening?" Bill asked, not stuttering like he usually did. Mike wondered why, he'd never met someone with a stutter like that, one bad enough he skipped like a scratched record.

"Billy got possessed by the Mind Flayer." Steve said, the Party all paling just at his name.

"I'm sorry, the fucking _what_?" Eddie looked absolutely ghostly, gripping Hanlon's hand tighter. Will took out his sketchbook again.

"About six months ago, I got possessed by this monster." He did a quick sketch, but it still looked chilling, a little figure meant to represent Will, with a monster behind him, tall enough it touched the clouds, tethered to him. "It got a piece of itself inside of me when I was in the Upside Down, another dimension, it's like our reality but empty, and deadly, and cold. I got stuck there. El got me out." He kept drawing, a rough outline of a boy, which he scribbled in black, so quickly it was almost dizzying. "But it stayed with me, and it used me as a spy, I could spy back, I called them now-memories, because it was like I was remembering something as it was happening, it wasn't just the memories though." He blinked hard, angry, like he was trying to look strong. He was crumbling. "If it wanted to, it could control me, it was ingrained inside of me, using me to push forward, the thing was building another Upside Down in Hawkins. They had labyrinths, tunnel systems underground full of monsters. To kill it, El closed the gate, the portal between our words. But maybe," He wiped the drawing again. "That piece that was inside of me," He flipped the page, slamming his blackened hand against it. "Didn't leave. Maybe it's been getting stronger this whole time, waiting for a new host, so it could get El, open the gate, and bring it all back." The handprint, though Mike had seen it twice, was chilling. "Billy, you said it was made of rats?"

"They weren't rats anymore, they got close to the thing and basically exploded, turned to nothing but liquid, then the monster absorbed it. It did something to me, I don't know what, but I can feel it. I feel wrong." Will looked at him, all careful, like he understood.

"Like you can't get warm, but you're always burning hot?" Billy nodded. "And you're hungry for something but you can't keep any food down?" He nodded again.

"It's awful."

"Will had that thing in him for months. You can handle a few hours while we sort this shit out." Dustin examined the drawing, looking up at Billy.

"Maybe the gate isn't closed all the way, maybe the lab is back."

"They wouldn't be stupid enough to come back-"

"Or maybe, a different lab came to Hawkins." Dustin and Steve looked at each other. "I intercepted something on _Cerebro_ when I was trying to talk to Suzie the other night, some weird Russian code, Steve and Robin were helping me crack it. It could be here, they could be reopening the Upside Down."

"Shit." Lucas grabbed for his bag, they were sitting in a circle on the porch like idiots, rooting through it. "Well, everyone get your shit ready, if it has Billy, we can find it. And if we can find it, we can kill it."

"But what good does killing it do if we can't close the gate?" Mike was a little annoyed. "We have to crack the code before we kill the monster, get in and shut it down. That should end it."

"What about Billy?" Will pointed at him with a pencil, and he jerked back. "If we get it out of him after, the same thing will happen again. It'll be a cycle, like their monster."

"So we cook it out of him, crack the code, then close the gate?" Mike froze. "How do we even know the new lab is in Hawkins?"

"Maybe it's like a hub here, maybe the wall between the worlds is thinner. It would make sense, El could tear between them like paper."

"El has superpowers?" Ben asked, looking at her nervously. She nodded, then stiffened.

"Wait, El, couldn't you go in and look for the gate?" Lucas asked, looking at her so hopefully.

"I need a person to look for if I step into the static." She frowned. "It's hard enough to find people, never mind a place, especially one I've never seen before." Lucas sighed.

"Anyone know Russian?"

The phone inside the house started ringing. El slipped inside, leaving the door open behind her.

"Hello?"

There was a long pause.

"The Upside Down is back. We are all at the cabin, you and Jonathan should come too." Mike stood too quickly, grabbing the phone.

"Nancy?" He heard her take a shaky breath.

"You're at Hop's cabin?" He swallowed.

"Yeah, we stopped at Steve's for the weapons and stuff, now we're here with Richie's friends. They had a monster too, it's a long story. When can you get here?"

"We can leave right now. Be careful, don't do anything stupid until we get there."

"I love you." He said, it felt like something he needed to say. Her voice sounded all strangled when she spoke.

"I love you too, Mike." He hung up the phone, stepping back and running his hands through his hair, staring at the ceiling, at the dust catching in the sunlight, the little cracks in the beams of wood. He had to get back out there, but he felt so tired. So unbearably exhausted.

"You alright?" He flinched when Will spoke, he had missed him opening the door, and he was standing in the closed doorway like he was approaching a wild animal, like he was scared.

"We could die," Mike looked down at him, he was taller, he had always been taller. "Right?" Will nodded, stepping closer, hesitant, nervous. “It could all be over in a second.” 

"Why are you-" He took two long strides, crossing the room, and paused when he got too close, losing his nerve.

“Nothing, it doesn’t matter.” Mike felt like he was in a dream, opening the door to sunshine and unfamiliar faces. He sunk to the floor, his head finding Will's lap. He played with his hair while Steve went in, calling his co-worker, Robin. Will's fingers ran through his hair, soothing and gentle.

Another station wagon pulled up, this one more beat up than Steve's, it was Jonathan's car. Nancy got out of the drivers seat, rushing to him, dodging all the traps, with practiced grace, ease. She grabbed him off the porch, pulling him into a hug.

"Don't you ever scare me like that again." She said into his hair, kissing the top of his head. "Why would you tell them you got hurt?"

"Get off, Nancy." She let him go, and he was stricken by how put together she looked, like a real adult, hair done up, makeup on, a horrible purple dress that fit her properly, sleek and work ready. "I'm fine, nothing even happened to me."

"Still, that scared the shit out of me. Jonathan was worried about Will, but he's too tough to give his brother a hug, I guess." She looked at the porch and lit up, blue eyes going wide. She snatched a revolver. Looking up, seeing Richie, and going white. "What is he doing here?"

"He knew the minute he got here that something was wrong, Nance. We aren't the only ones who have monsters that won't die." She frowned, putting bullets in her gun, keeping it in her lap when she sat with them. "Anyone who's new in town, this is my sister, Nancy, and Will's brother Jonathan, Nancy, Jonathan, this is the Losers Club." They all waved, Stan glaring, Richie leaning on him, head on his shoulder. Bill was looking at him, there was no mistaking it, he was staring like he was seeing ghosts.

"We can't get ahold of Hopper, or mom." Will said, Jonathan groaned, rubbing at his eyes, still in his suspenders and his ugly tie from work.

"Of course you cant get ahold of her, that would be too easy."

"Robin is still at work, I need to go get her and out translations. Dustin?" Dustin shot to his feet, making his way over to the shiny red car they would probably destroy by tomorrow. Billy stopped them, trading car keys with a grimace. They had a bad habit of wrecking anything they touched the minute a monster came to town, and handing over his camaro for practicality's sake had to sting.

"Lucas," He looked at him, eyes wide. "Keep calling Mrs. Byers, try everything, work, home, whatever. Just try, alright? And get them to radio Hopper at the station, tell them... I don't know, tell them it's an emergency but not of the police nature, tell them it's personal." He went inside, and Mike felt like he was burning, like he was dying. "Fuck."

"You don't have to take care of everyone, Mike." El's voice, steady behind him, was so soft, her hands ghosting over his shoulders. He looked over at her, she was still in that shimmery strawberry lipgloss, her favourite, if he was remembering right. He smiled, something so small shouldn't have made all the anxiety ease, but it did. Her black mascara and strawberry lipgloss felt familiar as breathing.

"Yes I do." He whispered back, feeling her stiffen.

"Mike-" He cut her off, raising his voice to get everyone's attention.

"Okay, we need to deal with Billy."

"What do you mean deal with me?" Billy snapped, blue eyes hard and scared at the same time, standing on the porch, leaning against the wall like he needed the support.

"We're gonna have to do what we did with Will, we're burning that thing out of you." He glanced at Will, then at Nancy. She had been there, her and Jonathan had seen it, done it. "He's got a piece of the Mind Flayer, it happened last night." Nancy nodded, She was shaking.

"Me and Jonathan did it last time, with Mrs. Byers." The Losers all turned to her with wide eyes, like parents being involved hadn't occurred to them, like they had been on their own for all of it. "We need another person. Someone strong."

"I can help." El said from beside him. "I want to help Billy, make him better." His blue eyes got all soft, looking at her with so much affection Mike felt sick.

"No one is stronger than El." Max agreed, smiling at her reassuringly. "What do you need us to do?" Nancy froze, panicked almost.

"We need rope, the space heaters from the shed, and a fire." She listed, swallowing hard. "And something metal, something that can get hot-"

"Something to burn me with." Billy said, voice sounding almost hollow. "Where did you burn baby Byers?"

"Mom was the one who did it, it was on his side." Will lifted his shirt while Jonathan spoke, that bright red brand a permanent reminder. "I was panicking the whole time, I thought we were killing him."

"Burn me in the same spot." Billy said, staring at that pale bit of skin. "We want to have the best chance, right? This worked before."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." He usually looked tough, but right now, he looked small, fragile.

"El, can you help with the heavy lifting?" She nodded, following Jonathan to the shed, looking almost comically small beside him. After a moments pause, a space heater came hurtling toward them, Mike grabbed it before it hit the ground, a laugh bubbling in this throat.

"Thanks El!" Her answering laughter was so bright, rounding the corner with a bloody nose and a small space heater in her grip. She was trying to wipe the blood off on her shoulder, and it wasn't really working. "Here." He passed the heater he was holding to Ben, he was closest. "That doesn't seem very effective." She nodded, he took the heater from her, and she wiped at the blood properly.

"It was a bad idea, probably." She smiled, one of her quiet, understated smiles, and he wished, not for the first time, that he could like her the way he was supposed to.

"But I love power misuse, it's my favourite." She giggled, and he grinned. "Billy, come inside." Mike prompted, and he let out a shaky breath, squaring his shoulders and following them in.

Nancy had already been busy, setting up a bed in the living room, all the furniture pushed aside to make room, rope wrapped around the corners, ready for him to just get in. Mike started a fire, using old newspapers for kindling, watching the flames crackle and build into something bright and living while Jonathan and El set up all the heaters, putting them on low. Billy was probably easier to get in the bed than Will had been, letting them tie him up without complaint, staring at the ceiling when they were done. Lucas was still standing at the phone, no one was picking up, that much was evident.

"You should clear out of here, it's gonna get hot." Mike called to him, he nodded, hanging up the phone. Ben going out ahead of him, quiet and nervous, almost shy.

"I left messages for them at work, it's like they fell off the face of the earth or something." On that eerie note, he went back outside, and Mike went back to building the fire, trying to get it hotter, brighter. He could feel it getting hot around him, they had turned up the heaters, Nancy had at least, and Billy was getting less cooperative.

"Let me out!"" He shouted, Mike added more wood to the fire, more paper, the metal rod Hop used as a fire iron. "If you don't let me out right now I'm killing every one of you bastards! You freak— _Fuck!_" Nancy cranked it hotter, already sweating, all of them were. Billy screamed, a heavy sound, sticking to his bones, and thrashed around, trying to rip free. His back was arching, head shaking, struggling. "Let me out, now." His voice had taken on a strange pleading, black creeping up his body, his veins. They were drawing it to the surface. "Please, please it hurts."

"No." El stood, doing something with her hand, her powers, the fire burning hotter, the heaters all snapping to the highest setting. He screamed, almost ripping free, the black was in his eyes, they were open, all his veins standing raised and black. It was disgusting. "Get out of him! Leave him alone!" She was shouting, like the monster could hear her, like if she screamed loud enough it would listen.

He ripped free, standing in front of her, and lunging. There was a loud crash when they collided, a table falling, a chair. She ripped him away from her, held him in the air with her powers, he was struggling, like she had him by the throat, black eyes wide and angry. It wasn't Billy. Not anymore. Mike watched her, the blood on her face, frozen in horror. He forced himself to move. He grabbed the iron, burning his hand on the hot metal, lifting it, and pressing it into Billy's side.

At first, nothing happened.

There was a sick, ugly sizzling noise, he could see his skin bubbling around the metal, and he could feel his hand blistering. These would be bad burns, but Billy would have it worse. He stayed so still that for a second, Mike thought it hadn't worked. Then, he let out a scream, so saturated in agony it was almost torture just to hear it, thick, black smoke poured past his lips, the colour retreating from his veins, he held it there until there was nothing left, it was just Billy, floating, with his eyes rolled back.

He dropped the metal rod to the floor, El let Billy fall. It was silent for a moment, while they caught their breath, Nancy and Jonathan picking Billy up by his arms and his ankles, swinging him back onto the bed. They shut the heaters off, and Mike walked to the sink, feeling numb. It was too quiet now, just the fire crackling and Billy's uneven breaths.

He filled a jug with water, and doused the fire. It was nothing but smoking embers when he was finished. He opened the door, not even looking at his hand, smoke rushing out behind him, some of it grey, some of it black and living, darting like it was looking for somewhere to go. He felt bile rising in his throat, he leaned over the edge of the porch, and vomited into the grass.

Someone was holding his hair back, or soothing their hands through it, he finally stopped, nothing coming out but water. He was retching. He wiped at his eyes, and his mouth, ignoring the pain in his hand to touch Will, to let him pull him against his chest. Will just held him like he was a child, like he needed comforting after a bad dream.

"You need to put your hand in cold water." He said, and Mike laughed, resting his forehead on his shoulder.

"I need to do a lot of things, Will."

"Seriously, Mike, it doesn't look good." He pulled him into the house, ignoring the eyes of friends and strangers on his back. Will glanced at Billy, sweat-soaked and passed out on the bed, shivering, and cringed. "Is that what I looked like?"

"I wouldn't know." He said, a small smile on his lips. "You probably looked worse, apparently it took longer with you too, he just wasn't as possessed as you were or something."

"It's gonna sting at first." Will warned, and put out a bowl of cold water. "You can go slow, but if you don't put it something cold, it might keep burning." Mike eased in his fingertips, then his knuckles, then the palm of his hand. The icy water felt too sweet on his skin, it didn't seem real. Max was standing behind them, staring at her stepbrother, shaking. She pulled a chair close and sat beside him, hesitantly taking his hand, whispering something to him.

"You're hurt?" El stood in the doorway to her bedroom, holding something, a red bag. "Will can take care of you."

"I can do it myself-"

Will cut him off. "But, you don't have to."

He left his hand in the water while Will looked for something for the burns, humming under his breath. He felt disgusting, his mouth tasted like vomit, his stomach was still churning, he was slick with sweat, and his hand was coated in blisters, but he was alive, and Will was looking at him the same way he always had, like he was safe, like he was solid and real. He took his hand out of the water, and let Will dry it with gentle touches, smoothing on something with aloe vera in it and wrapping it in clean white gauze. Mike got a glass from the cabinet, filling it with water and rinsing his mouth out, watching as the rest of the Losers filed inside the cabin for the first time. El's bedroom door was open, so you could see her pink nest of a bed, the comic books on the nightstand, her organized mess of clothes piled on her chair. It was in stark contrast to the rough plaid and exposed wood of the rest of the cabin.

"El?" Mike called, and her head poked out from behind the door.

"Yeah?" She still had blood above her lip, and she was shining, as disgusting as he was, she had already changed into something more practical, a loud yellow shirt and blue pants. Ready for battle.

"Do you think you could find Will's mom?" She nodded, and they got to work again. They moved Billy's bed, setting the T.V. up and playing static, white noise. Max put a blanket on the floor in front of it, trying to keep her comfortable maybe, Lucas holding her against his chest, comforting her, it looked like. The Losers club sat on any furniture that Billy hadn't destroyed, the coffee table and a wooden chair had been crushed, Mike had been very forcibly told he wasn't moving anything with a fucked up hand, and was shoved onto the couch, right beside Richie.

"This is fucked, dude." He whispered, and Mike nodded, looking at his hand. Red was already seeping through, a blister must have popped. "You're all so calm, how often does this shit happen?"

"Too often." Mike watched El sit cross legged, a paisley bandanna tied over her eyes. "We thought it was over, we were so sure we were safe. I wouldn't have let you bring all of them here if I knew this shit would happen again."

She stiffened, blood dripping over her lips, he leaned closer.

"Do you see them?" He asked, keeping his voice loud, urgent. She had to hear him over the static.

"Joyce is with my dad," Her voice was strained. "In a forest? There is another man, in handcuffs."

"Can you tell where they are? What are they saying?"

"Hiking to _Illinois?_" She wrinkled her nose. "Doesn't make sense." She ripped off the blindfold, eyes flying open. "I will try again later, when they get somewhere I can find. The man wasn't speaking English, it was something else, it was making my dad angry."

"Russians." Lucas muttered, grabbing his radio.

"Dustin, come in, Dustin, do you copy? Over."

"I copy. Over." It was comforting to know he was alive, at least.

"Progress report? Over." Lucas was pacing, Billy stirring on his bed, Max gripping his hand like a lifeline.

"We cracked the code, the Russians are under Starcourt. We found their loading spot, but there are very big guards with very big guns, we might need backup." There was chattering in the background. "Will the two of you shut the hell up? What's going on back at Hop's? Over."

"Billy isn't possessed anymore, and El found Joyce and Hop, they're in the woods with a Russian prisoner, looks like. Over." There was an empty buzzing on the other end, cursing, then a loud crash.

"Shit, Steve's being a moron. Over and out." There was too much silence in the room, Mike slumped against Richie's shoulder. They should probably figure out why his skin feels like ice, but they didn't have time. There wasn't enough time.

"I'm sorry you all got pulled into our bullshit." He addressed the near strangers on Hop's couch. "Your clown picked a bad time to come to Hawkins." Richie's eyes went wide, he grabbed his hand, studying the marks on the back, the crescents Will had carved into his skin.

"After you saw IT, the little cuts, they didn't heal, right? They still aren't healing." Mike nodded, running a fingertip over them. If he picked at them they would bleed again.

"Will's are still there too." Stan spoke from the other end of the couch. "Anything that happens from here onward might not heal, not completely." Mike curled his bandaged hand into a fist, feeling the blisters burst, watching the clean white bandage turn red.

Billy sat bolt upright, gasping for breath. His eyes were wide, he clutched his side, the one Mike had burned. Max launched herself at him, cradling his face in her hands like he was a child instead of a man, so gentle, still too rough.

"You're alright, Billy. It's gone, they got rid of it." He pulled her close, petting her hair almost awkwardly, like he didn't know what to do with his hands.

"Shh, it's alright, Max. Try to breathe for me, alright, what are you crying for?" He'd been nicer since that fall, not grumbling so much when he took her places, hanging out with her and El when they had sleepovers. El insisted he was better, that he had changed, but Mike hadn't believed her, not until he saw them on that bed.

"You, asshole, I was so scared." She sounded so broken, her voice small and choked. Like she was crying. He had never seen her cry. "I heard screaming."

"Wheeler was the one who did it. He got it out of me. Nancy and Byers just stood there like fucking lemons, him and Janie are the ones who fixed me up proper." Max laughed, it sounded wet and strange through the tears.

"Don't ever do something that stupid again, I'm not losing my brother, alright?" She was glaring at him, finger jabbing into his chest. He looked at her with wide eyes.

"Brother?"

"You're my big brother, jackass, that was the deal when our parents got married." He laughed, looking at her with so much sincerity Mike had to look away. "Not stepbrother or whatever, my brother. We're blood now."

"I don't deserve that, Max, I've been such an asshole, I never took care of you, I've always-"

"You beat up demodogs with a goddamn crowbar for me, you took so many hits from your prick of a father because of my stupid mistakes, you have done nothing but take care of me since California, and I was always too blind to see it. You are my brother, and you can't change that no matter what, got it?" He just looked at her, his blue eyes big, like he was about to start crying.

"Got it." He swallowed, and started to get up, but Max put a hand on his chest.

"Now let us patch you up, Billy." She glanced at his side, a red, bubbling mess. "Someone get me the first-aid kit." El grabbed it off the counter, handing it to Max and sitting on the bed beside her.

"Hey, Janie." She grinned.

"Why does he call her Janie? Her name is Eleven, right?" Richie was quieter than usual, his deafening voice reduced to what could almost be called a whisper.

"Her real name was supposed to be Jane, but when they brought her to the lab, and tattooed the number on her wrist, they only called her Eleven." Mike spoke so the rest of the Losers could hear, all of them leaning close. "She's got so many names now. I named her El, Richie named her Ellie, her mom named her Jane, the bad men named her Eleven," He glanced over at them. "And Billy named her Janie. She picks through them, she told me once, picks whichever one feels like her. I was the first one who called her anything but Eleven, so she wanted to tell me first, plus... we were..." He could feel himself going red.

"Swapping spit?" Richie interjected, yelping when Mike punched him in the arm.

"Yeah, asshole, swapping spit." He closed his eyes tight, his headache melding with the pain in his hand to create what was basically the lowest level of Hell. "Any chance you hid something to help me fucking think in that jacket?"

"Sadly, I did not. Why, still hungover?" Richie laughed, tossing him a smoke. "To help with your little headache." Hop's house was littered with lighters and matches, Mike picked one up off the coffee table, lighting it with a familiarity he shouldn't have yet, passing it to Richie after he took a few deep drags.

"Yeah, that did absolutely fuck-all." He sighed, rooting through the first-aid kit, a little bottle of white pills catching his eye. He pulled it open, taking one out an examining it. "What do you think it does?" Richie shrugged, taking his glasses off and using them like a twinned, make-shift magnifying glass.

"Probably a painkiller or something." He said, putting his glasses back on. Mike threw it back in the bottle, groaning.

"This is bullshit, why did you have to have a meltdown this morning? You could've picked any other morning."

"Oh, I'm sorry my mental breakdown was inconvenient to you, Wheeler." Richie snapped, and he instantly felt guilty. "I'll make sure to pencil it in next time, make sure it doesn't happen before the world decides to fucking end."

"Whatever, asshole, let me be miserable in peace." They were fighting, but they still curled together like they had in Richie's bed, that morning, in another world entirely. Richie has his head resting on his shoulder, both of them with their legs kicked out in front of them, identical and nothing alike at the same time. Richie passed him the cigarette.

"Micheal Wheeler!" He flinched, shoving it back in Richie's hands so quickly he probably burned him. "Why the fuck are you smoking?You're going to wish the Upside Down got you when I'm done with you." Nancy grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, nails digging in.

"Ouch! Fuck off Nancy, it's not a big deal."

"You're my baby brother, I decide what is and isn't a big deal." She glared at Richie. "I knew the second you showed up at our door you would be bad news, you're changing him."

"I'm not a kid anymore, Nancy. I'm not gonna just hide out in the basement playing games for the rest of my life, this isn't Richie's fault. I chose to do all the shit that I did, and you won't stop me from doing it again." She glared up at him, lips disappearing into a sharp line. This was a familiar dance, they knew the steps by heart.

"You don't just get to do whatever you want because you had a few bad weeks, Mike-"

"Bad weeks?" He felt like she had punched his lungs out of his chest, hollow. Apparently, this would be one of the bloody fights, no pulling punches. "A few bad weeks? I guess I could say the same to you-"

"Your best friend didn't fucking die, Mike, he's right there. I didn't go off the rails after Barb got killed, you don't get to drink and smoke and get high with our loser cousin just because you have nightmares every night, that's bullshit."

"You're bullshit! I'm not planning to do it every goddamn night, plus, you did go off the rails. You partied and drank and threw your future away to work for some shitty newspaper just because you're scared that if you leave this place you'll forget it all happened, it'll turn into a bad dream or something. Then you'll be just like everyone else, you'll be exactly what they say you are. A scared little girl playing at being strong. You're a hypocrite and a coward, Nancy." She looked at him like he had slapped her, he felt the guilt instantly. He always went too far, he always pulled the card that would sting the most, especially with her. She could be just as bad, they fought dirty, using insecurities and fears to hurt, aiming to kill.

"As if you're any better-"

"Mike, Nancy! Stop!" They both glared at Jonathan, he was red, and his hands were shaking. "I don't know why you're always so _vicious_ with each other, but we don't have time for your shit today, alright? The world is ending and you're at each other's throats."

"Jonathan, it's not serious." She said, exasperated.

"Yeah, we're always fine like, ten minutes later." Mike glanced at Nancy, and they both grinned, matching embarrassed smiles. "Truce?" He offered her his fist, and she knocked her knuckles against his.

"Truce."

"Your weird relationship stresses me out so badly, you have no fucking idea." He looked around, finding his brother. "Will, promise me you won't absorb Mike's dickishness." Will just smiled and rolled his eyes, sitting beside El on Billy's bed.

"I promise." He said, and Mike glanced at his sister. Everyone who had seen them like this before was unfazed, they didn't pay attention to their arguments anymore, they never amounted to much, just apocalyptic fights that always ended in a truce, always another argument on the horizon. He slumped onto the couch beside Richie, and took the cigarette, blowing the smoke in her direction. She gave him the finger.

"What the fuck was that?" Richie asked, and Mike shrugged halfheartedly.

"That's just how me and Nancy are sometimes, mostly when we're stressed. We're so close in age, we used to fight about everything, every second of the day we were arguing about something, it's always stupid shit, and we always take it too far, but we recover fast. I fucking hate her most of the time, but I would die for her in a heartbeat." Richie curled against him again.

"Watching that kind of made me glad I'm an only child." Mike laughed.

"We aren't always like that, I love her to death. We just have a weird bond I guess, we fight so much that nothing could split us apart. I could never talk to Holly like that though." Richie glanced up at him.

"Who's Holly?" Mike felt like an even bigger asshole than before, handling Richie carefully, like he was made of glass.

"My little sister, blonde, five years old, about this tall," He gestured. "Big brown eyes. She's at some bible camp right now, but she gets in a few days. You really didn't know about her? She's in all the family pictures."

"How many cousins do I have, Mike? Please count them out nice and slow, because apparently no one bothered to tell me.”

"It's just the three of us, and then on my moms side Aunt Penny has a daughter named Harriet, she's about a year younger than us." He held up four fingers. "I'm assuming you don't want my dad's side?"

"Definitely not." Richie seemed agitated. "Holly is coming here? Right when _IT_ is planning to show up?" Mike shuddered.

"That _thing_ is never coming near her." He touched the back of his hand, the same way the Losers touched their raised scars. "I'll keep her on a goddamn leash if it'll stop her from seeing _IT_." A voice crackled over the radio.

"Mike, this is a code red, pick up! Come on you bastard." Steve, frantic over the radio.

"I'm here, you need to say over. Over." He straightened the moment the radio had flared to life, cigarette in Richie's hands again, the entire room falling silent.

"Listen, we did something really stupid." Steve said, there was talking in the background. "And we're stuck in some elevator, they were transporting a weird green liquid, Dustin thinks it's fuel for something."

"And you're inside the elevator with this fuel?"

"I know, we're stupid. You don't have to remind me." He laughed hoarsely. "Bring El, try not to draw attention to yourselves, maybe bring one of the Losers," He paused, and Mike almost spoke, but his voice came over again. "Bring Richie, I trust him."

"Where is this elevator?"

Steve gave him directions, and Mike jotted them down in his messy scrawl, writing them on the back of his wrist in permanent marker, trying to ignore the fact the bandage was smudging blood whenever he touched it.

“We’re leaving now.” He said. “Over and out.” He looked up, meeting El’s eyes.

“Bad?” She said, and he nodded, glancing at Richie and then focusing on Will, who looked absolutely devastated.

“We have to go.” He got to his feet, and Will stumbled to his feet, peering up at him with those huge green eyes, lip trembling. “What’s wrong?”

“We could die, right?” An echo of his words, in a smaller voice, all the breath left Mike’s lungs. “It could all be over in a second.”

“Will-”

“That’s what you said earlier, I was thinking about it, and I think I figured out what you meant.” He was so panicked, heart hammering a wild, jackrabbit quick beat in his chest, almost holding his breath when Will went on tiptoes, and pressed their lips together.

Mike’s eyes closed, hands reaching to cradle his jaw, every touch warm, and icy, and electric. It felt like they were made to fit together like this, pieces of a puzzle falling into place, all their sharp edges complementing each other, punching the air out of their lungs. Will broke the kiss, looking up at him with red cheeks and green eyes, so beautiful it hurt. Mike traced his cheekbones with his thumbs.

“Come back to me?” He whispered, small and fragile as glass.

“I’ll always come back to you.” Mike kissed him again, just once, just to make sure it was real. “I have to go, but we have to talk about this later, alright?” Will laughed, clinging to his hand, pulling him back for another second, just so he could look at him, apparently.

“Yeah, we can talk about it-“ He smiled, and Mike couldn’t fight off a matching grin. “-Later. Go save our idiot friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u made it through all of this shit, it’s basically an ST3 AU where they actually talk to each other lmao. mike’s relationship with nancy is kind of based on me and my younger sister? we aren’t very nice to each other 
> 
> if u enjoyed it, let me know! getting comments literally brightens my whole day, it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.


	8. mike wheeler is a badass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie and Mike discover a long-hidden secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: death  
this is a shorter chapter, updates will be slower now that i’m back at school, i’m sorry.  
song for the chapter is i’m afraid of americans by david bowie.

Mike's skin was still singing when they pulled into the parking lot at Starcourt, getting out of the car and staring up at the shiny new building. He hated it, in a visceral, instinctive way, it felt wrong, off. Maybe it was because of the Upside Down, poisoning the town around it, the way it poisoned those fields. He wondered if you'd be able to tell if it was rotting, it was artificial, sickly sweet, like hard candy. He had only been inside of it twice, seeing movies at the theatre, chills running up and down his spine.

"Where are they?" Richie asked, thumb tracing the raised line at his hip, they had given him a gun to go with his bat. Mike glanced at his arm, and followed the edge of the building to the loading area, examining the silvery garage doors.

"In there." El looked around, making sure no one could see. She raised her hand, dropped her chin, and glared at the doors. There was a moments pause, stillness, just her brown eyes and her sweat damp curls. A line of blood dripped from her nose, and there was a sound behind them, like the safety on a gun flicking off. 

She was so fast, spinning and raising her arm, Mike hadn't noticed the guard, but now, he was impossible to miss. Gun on the ground at his feet, held in the air by nothing but her raised hand. His eyes were huge, terrified, arms straight out, struggling, like she would ever just let him go.

"Mike," She sounded too scared, looking at the man. He had blue eyes. Bright blue. "What should I do?"

"He's opening the Upside Down." He said, hating the words on his lips, hating that he felt like this was the only option, the guard, the stranger, his lips parting, looking so human. "He's like the bad men." Her face crumpled, like it did when she was going to cry. She shut her eyes tight, and jerked her head to the side.

There was a horrifying snap, and he stopped struggling, his blue eyes empty. He wasn't scared anymore. He wasn't anything at all.

Mike stepped forward, grabbing the keycard in his breast pocket, ignoring the angle his neck was bent at, ignoring the fact he was touching a corpse. He looked at it for a moment, feeling sick.

"Richie, help me move the body." His black eyes were huge, looking at the corpse in the stark sunlight, the blue eyes were empty and glassy, like a dolls. "We don't have time for fear, someone could see us, come on." He handed the keycard to El, touching the body, imagining he was just asleep. His skin was still warm, his dark uniform strange and heavy. He grabbed him by the arms while El opened the door, Richie grabbing his ankles. It wasn't so bad, he was heavy, and awkward, but they managed to shove him under the truck he had been hiding behind. Dustin's voice made the knot in his chest untangle, all of the happiness he had gotten from Will's kiss had dissolved like smoke.

"Holy shit!"

"Help us out, grab his gun." Steve ran to help them with the body, finding his car keys, cramming him inside, sitting in the drivers seat like he was sleeping.

"That should keep them from noticing, for now at least." They should take his uniform, he knew they should, but the idea of taking anything else from the man made his skin crawl. Mike took one last look at his empty blue eyes. He looked young, maybe a year or two older than them, and it was over, his life was _over_. He was dead.

"Did you kill that guy?" Robin, at least, the girl he assumed was Robin, was staring at him and Richie. They must've looked like evil twins or something, Mike's hair, usually combed straight was standing up in wild curls from the heat of the cabin, the sweat worse than anything summer had thrown at them, he had bags under his eyes, and cigarettes on his breath. They were merging into one, the only differences between them in clothing, in Richie's shredded jeans, in his big glasses, his black t-shirt with a picture of an album cover. _The Smiths_. He was a few inches taller, and Mike felt like a child around him, awkward and ungainly.

"No." Richie said, shoving his glasses up his nose and letting out a shaky laugh, like he didn't know what to do with himself when he wasn't smiling. "Ellie did." She wiped blood from under her nose, so small, and so strong,

"You alright?" She wouldn't look at him, staring at the little keycard, at Robin, head tilted like she was trying to understand something. He wished he could slip inside her head, tell her it was alright to have questions, tell her it was alright if she wasn't strong all the time. He wanted to pull the hurt out of her.

"I'm good." She wasn't, it was painfully obvious, the frown tugging at her lips.

"Friends don't lie." He reminded her, and she regarded him warmly, her brown eyes shining a little.

"Max said boyfriends lie, all the time."

"Good thing I'm not your boyfriend anymore." He smiled, and she laughed, the sound breaking through the layer of hurt she had built up, light as air.

"Now, I am good." She pulled him into a hug, hanging onto his arm almost protectively. "You're my best friend, I wouldn't lie to you." He stilled, a smile splitting his lips, that warm feeling rushing back.

"As adorable as this is, we need to get back in the elevator." Steve said.

A small voice cut through the air like a knife. "You want _me_ to go back in there?"

"Erica?" Mike knew he had to look ridiculous, like his eyes were popping out of his head. "What are you doing here?" She rolled her eyes.

"They needed someone small enough to fit through the vents, and I needed to fill an ice cream shaped hole in my summer." She put her hands on her hips, raising her eyebrows and looking up at him. "You connect those dots." Mike looked at Dustin, shaking his head.

"Lucas is going to murder you."

"We were out of options!"

"So you decided to involve a ten year old? She's a child, Dustin!" He glared at Steve, then Robin. "You should've just called us sooner, we could've opened this so easily," He gestured to the dead body. "And this bullshit wouldn't have happened."

"You were busy, in case you're forgetting the fact we had a possessed fucking asshole to deal with." Dustin said, clearly exhausted.

"We have so many people now, they would've been fine without me, I only did-"

"Mike, we needed _you_." El spoke, voice too big, hand too soft on his shoulder. "They're right, no one else could have done it, and you can't be everywhere at once."

"All I did was press a fucking branding iron into him, Lucas could have done that, Richie could have done that, we would have been fine." He ran a hand through his hair, rubbing at his neck and regretting it when El's eyes went wide.

"Give me your hand."

"El-"

"Now, Mike." She grabbed for it, the bandage soaked with blood, unwrapping it, trying to be gentle. It still stung when it met the open air. It looked disgusting, all his skin was raw, the blisters replaced with a single, bloody swath of skin, or, more accurately, lack of skin. "Why didn't you say something?"

"It's fine, El." She shook her head.

"It's bad, it's hurting you."

"Well there's nothing we can do about it-"

"Go back to Will?" He flushed. "You promised him you would be safe, take care of yourself. This isn't taking care of yourself."

"We have to go, now, Eleven. I don't care about what I promised him, I care about closing that gate and making sure that thing never touches him again, alright?"

"Friends don't lie, Mike." He swallowed, gathering his courage.

"But boyfriends do, _all the time_." He ripped his hand out of her grip, wrapping the bandage around it again, ignoring the way Dustin's mouth fell open. "We need to move, Erica, go home, it isn't safe for you to be involved. I'm done talking about my hand, or any injury, to be honest. I know my limits." He looked at El, eyes hard. "Open it, El." She shoved the card into his hands, glaring at him.

"You do it, no going back after this, Mike." He slid it in without hesitation, watching the doors open with hard eyes. She should know him well enough by now to understand that trying to force him into doing something would just make him to the opposite. He stepped inside, Richie right behind him. Dustin, Steve, and Robin were all staring at them, they looked at each other, Mike stricken for a moment, Richie's glasses were in his hair, rubbing at his eyes, and it was like looking in a mirror. They were completely identical, it was bizarre. Cousins shouldn't look this close, this exact. El stepped in, glaring at him, glaring at Richie, who was rooting through the bag of supplies they'd packed, a canvas backpack with a Supercom, a first-aid kit, and too many weapons. He pulled out a gun, and tossed it to Robin, underhanded.

"Come on, lets kill some commies." He laughed, Robin fumbled the catch, barely grabbing it.

"Perfect gun safety, Rich, absolutely impeccable." He said, watching Dustin and Robin get in the elevator. It had to be an elevator, all the buttons, arrows and a keycard to open and close it. Mike stood, putting in the card and pressing one of the green buttons.

Suddenly, they were weightless, that soaring, dropping feeling consuming them.

He slumped against the wall, head on Richie's shoulder. He was oddly comforting, taking out a roll of gauze, rewrapping his hand. His tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth when he was focused. Mike did the same thing when he was younger, forcing the habit out of himself in the ninth grade, he still caught himself doing it when he was tired. A thought crossed his mind, strange and unwelcome, he didn't know if it would even be possible, but he figured he might as well ask.

"When's your birthday?" Richie looked up at him, glasses on the end of his nose, taping the bandage.

"July seventeenth," Mike's breath caught, he felt like he was suffocating. "Why?"

"What are the chances," He said, voice tiny and awful, choking on a truth he wished he hadn't uncovered. "That my birthday is on the exact same fucking day, Rich?" He leaned back, laughter bubbling in his chest, half hysterical. He wanted to scream.

"Mike, what does this even mean? It could just be-"

"What? A coincidence?" He raised his eyebrows. "Fucking look at us, Richie. You think it was just super fun chance that we were born on the _same_ goddamn _day_, and we look like this? Our parents are liars."

"My parents aren't anything, Mike."

"They're one thing," He laughed, feeling like the apocalypse had paused just so he could crumble. "Dead. Might be my parents too, but we might not ever know, because we could fucking die before we find out."

"Wait, if we're twins does that mean we have like, telepathy?" Mike laughed, but it wasn't a cold, frantic laugh, it was relief. This was Richie, if Richie was his brother, it wouldn't be the end of the world. It would be better, it would be nicer, not to be alone.

"Twins?" Dustin was staring at them, Mike's head on his chest, burned hand against his icy skin, curled against his chest as they hurtled into the centre of the world. "What did I miss? Will is dating Mike, Richie Tozier is a Wheeler-"

"I might be a Tozier." Mike said, the name burning his tongue. "My parents might not even be my parents, they're a bunch of fucking liars anyways." Richie tugged a hand through his messy curls, poking at them, tugging on one absently.

"I thought we had different hair textures, but this is exactly fucking like my dad's." Mike felt like his heart was trembling inside of his chest, his head fell back against the wall, staring into the lights like they were tiny suns.

"Shit." He bit his bottom lip. "As if we don't have enough going on right now."

"So, you guys have done shit like this before?" Robin was looking at him, and at Steve, her bright eyes bouncing between them.

"Richie had something a little different, but yeah, generally, we've done shit like this before, yeah."

"What was Richie's?" He laughed, it was cold, and dark, and endlessly fucking hollow, like he was seeing that thing behind his eyes.

"A child-eating shapeshifter." He stared at his hands, the barely healed cuts, coating his fingers. Mike wondered how he'd gotten scars so small. "Who reads your mind and becomes your worst nightmare. We didn't beat it, and _IT_'s in Hawkins too, we'll have to deal with it once the gate is closed. Once something like this starts, it never ends."

"That's fucking fantastic, isn't it?" Robin sounded so empty, horrified.

The elevator scraped to a stop, and the doors slid open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope u liked it! sorry it’s so short, i actually have another chapter with around 3k, but its in the works and i realized that this totally still makes sense with that chapter sooo, i decided not to throw this chapter away ! (And Richies Birthday is actually march seventeenth i changed it for plot)
> 
> im going to the fair with gennie tomorrow, today we hung out and picked apples together and made pies, and for friday we basically just made out in my car lmao i love being a Dumb Teenager , i might ask her to be my girlfriend maybe??? idk boys ,
> 
> ANYWAYS  
if u enjoyed the chapter, let me know, the next one will be stan’s pov


	9. stanley uris is a coward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan gets a visit from an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of self-harm, suicidal ideation, past sexual violence, past abuse, extreme violence/gore.
> 
> songs for the chapter: she / love is only sleeping / this just doesn’t seem to be my day / daydream believer by the monkees, because they’re all kind of short and this is a huge chapter. also, stan definitely listens to the monkees.

He had never been brave, not really. He liked to pretend sometimes, when the sky was huge and yellow above him, when Mike Wheeler burned his hand trying to touch the sun, when Richie grabbed a baseball bat from the ruins of a great castle, one made of bodies instead of bricks. He was a coward, but pretending otherwise was half the fun of being friends with a boy like Richie Tozier.

He had watched Mike kiss Will with half-lidded yellow eyes, happy and miserable at the same time. The only good thing about monsters ripping the world to shreds was the excellent distraction, he wasn't worried about controlling the blood in his wrists, or the food in his belly, or the iciness behind his eyes. All he needed to focus on was whether or not they would make it out of any of this alive. Richie had left when that boy, Steve, had said his name over the crackling _Supercom_, he had let them surround him, the Lucky Seven splintering to six. Stan hadn't kissed him goodbye. He was too craven, too cold. All he had gotten was an icy meeting of their eyes, Richie cradling his cheek with one frigid hand, his black eyes going wide when Stan pulled him against his chest, unable to force any words past his lips, hoping a hard and fast hug would tell him all he needed to know.

Stan was sitting in a chair by the wet fireplace, still staring at the door. Richie had been gone for little over an hour, but it felt like years. Everyone else was being useful, making plans, barricading doors, shuttering windows, doing whatever Nancy and Jonathan told them too, but Stan couldn't make himself move, panic locking him inside his body, finally frozen solid, barely able to blink, barely able to breathe. He could feel his veins, full of shards of glass, pumping blood through him, useless, shitty blood. If Richie didn't come back, that would be it for him, he would never move again, he would sit in that chair until he was dust, until he was nothing at all. He realized he had always been there when he was in danger, always able to throw himself into danger, throw himself in front of anything that could hurt him. Not knowing was the worst part of it, Richie could be dead right now, and he wouldn't know. He wouldn't know. All he could do was wait and fear and freeze.

"Stan?" Will's voice was small, and Stan couldn't force himself to speak, couldn't force his eyes away from the dark wooden door, he was trapped. "Stan, are you okay?" A hand, as cold as Richie's skin was now. _Why were they so cold?_ “Stan?" Will's voice was louder, panicked, afraid. "Stan, can you hear me? Guys, there's something wrong with him." He was so gentle, Stan couldn't feel him anymore, vision going fuzzy, going black, breath coming heavier, his heart beating too quickly in his chest, choking him, he couldn't move. _Why couldn't he move?_ He couldn't breathe, he was dying. He was dying. _He was dying._

"Back off, Will." Bill's voice, distant, his stutter gone, steady. He was in leader mode, ready to fight, to tell them how to fight, terrified and so much stronger than Stan had ever been. "He's looping, it's alright, Stan. He's going to be fine, he's going to come back." He couldn't breathe, it was like he was hearing everything from the bottom of a well, of the Well House, the sewers, the pipes they had almost died in. The woman from the painting, the woman who had tried to swallow him whole, who had eaten him alive. The only scars that had ever healed, nothing but little pink points on his cheeks, smooth skin. He was grateful for it. He was dying and he was grateful he wouldn't be ugly when he did it, a stupid thought.

"Breathe, Stan, come on." It was farther, vision going white, until he was drifting, until he was gone.

_-he was in the woods, Richie's voice laughing in the trees above him. There were birds, kinds that he used to look for with his dad, flitting between the branches, and Richie, knees scraped and bloody, a hundred feet in the air, staring at the sky with him. Stan was laying in the grass, it was cool with dew, the sky was deep purple above them, and even though he was so far, Richie was right beside him-_

Stan woke up gasping, blinking hard, there were tears in his eyes. He let out a sharp breath, crumbling into shards of glass, ceramic that wasn't meant to be touched. Tears choked him. Of course he had a panic attack, of course he made it all about him, he hated himself. Bill had his head in his lap, eyebrows furrowed, lips a hard line, eyes all soft.

"It's alright, Stan, no one is angry." He knew him too well, voice all steady and soothing. "Richie's alright, he's fine, Mike and Steve are keeping him safe. They radioed while you were out. It isn't your fault." He sobbed, whimpering pathetically when Bill pulled him into his arms, burying his face in his plaid shirt.

"I'm such a fucking coward." He could barely get the breath to say it. "I'm so sorry, Billy." He felt his lips press against his temple, his hairline, Bill grabbed his chin, forcing him to look him in the eyes. They were hard, dry, and strong as stone.

"You are not a coward, Stanley Uris." Stan shook his head, feeling even more pathetic, his hands were still numb, his heart still hammering.

"I couldn't even tell him, he could die and I didn't tell him, Bill." He grabbed his shoulders, still looking at him with those unyielding, powerful eyes, his red hair wild around him, his pale face set, open and vulnerable. It was hard to be hopeful. He was the bravest of them all.

"Listen to me, no one is dying today. Not on my watch." He wouldn't let Stan look away, dark as the charred wooden floorboards, dark as a night without stars. "Nothing is going to hurt him."

"We aren't with him, what if _IT_-"

"He isn't alone. He's got Mike's friends all around him, _IT_ can't kill him, he isn't afraid. He's going to be alright, Stan." Stan could feel his heart thundering in his chest, the pain was distracting, heavy, he needed something stronger, something that tasted like fire and poison. He nodded shakily, wiping the tears off his cheeks, his hand finding a familiar place on the back of Bill's neck, fingers tangled in the fine strands of red hair curling down his neck, closing his eyes tight and pressing their lips together.

They had done it a million times, kissed like this, mouths melding together, his mouth was hot compared to Richie's cold lips, his hands gripping him tighter, mouth just as desperate and insistent against his. They were always rushed, always frantic, kisses bruising instead of soft, Richie had kissed him like he was delicate, like he would break if he didn't touch him gently. Bill gripped him like he was diamond, unbreakable, invincible. He couldn't pretend it was someone else if he tried, this was Bill. This was his friend. He dug his nails into his scalp, tugged at his hair, drawing a sharp gasp from him. Stan pulled away, breathing in, out. It was grounding, steadying.

He opened his eyes, looking at Bill, his coffee coloured eyes, ignoring his swollen lips, ignoring the way his red hair was standing up now, in all directions.

"Thank you." He still felt numb, but at least he could breathe, at least his heartbeat was slowing into something steadier, manageable.

"Y-yeah." Bill looked at him, eyes narrowing, that little line appearing between pinched brows. "You have to tell him eventually."

"No, I don't." Stan stood shakily, trying to regain the composure he usually held so tightly, his lips were still trembling, but the tears had stopped, and his blood was slowing in his veins, thoughts slowing with it. Richie would be fine. "He doesn't need to know." He fixed his hair as best he could, brushing his shirt, his pants, tucking them in and making everything lie flat, tugging his sleeves over his bandaged arms, realizing very suddenly that he had torn some of them away, they were still knitted around, the ones nearest his hands.

"He definitely d-d-does." His breath was coming quick again, this time because of what was under his sleeve. This wasn't the time, this wasn't the time, _this wasn't the time._ He had torn out his stitches, and ripped open his wrist. His sleeve was soaked, black sweater covering the worst of it, the part of it that could kill him, little strip of white soaked in red, keeping it from falling to his right hand. He had so much blood under his nails, the nails on his dominant hand. The hand he hadn't touched Bill with. Blood and skin.

"Bill." He felt strangely light headed, staring at hand, covered in red, absolutely covered. "I think I did something bad."

Another set of hands were on him immediately, smaller than anybody else's. Beverly. She grabbed his hands, and immediately flinched, the red covering her like paint. She recovered quickly, cursing under her breath, rolling up his sleeves.

It was his right arm, the one he had hurt in clean lines, ruined. She saw the state of it, and covered it with the sleeve again, pressing down, applying pressure. Maybe that was why his hands had been going numb. The thought almost made him laugh, but it also made him feel hollow, scraping him out, until he was full of nothing but glass and air and blood. Empty of everything but his pain.

"Ben, first-aid kit." She said, holding the arm, it wasn't his arm, not anymore. He couldn't feel it. He was drifting.

"I'm so sorry." He said, gesturing to the arm, his hand covered in a thick layer of red. "I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't, I would never touch it while this shit was happening, it was like-"

"Like you could see all of your worst fears manifesting in front of you." Beverly said, going stiff and still when a chilling, familiar voice cut through the room like a knife.

"Isn't it fun, seeing each other again, Bevvie?" It was coming from everywhere, and nowhere, the shadows in the room spinning around them, thrashing and snapping at anyone who got close. They all stood, Nancy aiming her gun at the walls, like that would help, like that would kill _IT._ "I've missed the taste of your fear, delicious," The hair on the back of his neck stood up. “_Delectable_ fear.” They gathered at the centre of the room, the house shaking around them. Stan grabbed Eddies hand, and he knew he had to be terrified, because he didn't care about the bloody handprint on his cast, he just held onto him.

He felt the air in front of him shift, solidifying into something familiar, shifting and changing, popping and cracking and oozing to life. The painting of the woman that had swallowed him whole, her horrible grey skin, lopsided eyes, chilling, expressionlessness making his blood run cold.

"Did you miss me, Stanley-Boy?" He couldn't breathe, watching her mouth open, rows and rows of teeth, her throat that tasted like blood, and sweat, and piss. She reeked of rotten flesh, her clawed hand wrapping around his wrist, and he watched her touch the blood, frozen in terror, her nails digging in all the way to the bone, he could feel the scrape, then a sharp ripping sensation.

Billy Hargrove had shot her point blank in the chest, after all.

Her head spun without her body, changing, bones cracking and popping and breaking until _IT_ was something else. Taller and longer with a curved, sadistic smile that cut all the way to _IT's_ eyes. Pennywise.

"You'll float too! You'll float too! _You'll float too! __You'll float too!_" It wouldn't stop, laughing and shaking, getting louder and louder until it was almost deafening, it's voice coming from everywhere at once, from inside his head, he heard it when he covered his ears, shutting his eyes tight, just wanting it to end, wanting it to be over.

When he opened them, it was silent, and the clown was gone. Nothing left of him but a puddle of Stan’s blood and a red balloon, floating in the middle of Ellie's living room, a message on the wall, clearly written in his blood.

_ **STANLEY-BOY, YOU'LL FLOAT TOO** _

He felt his legs turn to jello, crumbling to his knees, sobbing, clutching his arm to his chest.

"_You're not my friends, you brought me into Neibolt! You left me! You left me-_" Harsh hands, pulling at his arm, he was looping, caught in memories, when he had suffocated inside of her mouth. "_You're going to get us all killed, Bill._"

"We didn't leave you, we're here, we're here, Stan." Hands in his hair, he couldn't see through the tears, hysterical, sobbing so hard he could taste bile, like acid in his mouth. Someone dumped Hydrogen-Peroxide on his arm, and the sting brought him back, eyes flying open, burning from the tears. "You're safe."

"I'm safe."

"_IT_ can't hurt you if you're not afraid." Bev whispered.

"You weren't afraid and _IT_ made you float, Bev. We're all going to die here, we're all going to float this time." He couldn't stop shaking, he barely felt the needle stitching his skin back together, Max was doing it, quickly too. She must have had to patch up her brother or something, she was good at it. "The Lucky Seven," He laughed. "We're fucking cursed."

"We should give him something for the pain." Eddie's voice was small, examining some pills Ben had handed to him and deeming them safe for consumption. Stan bit down on them. They made his mouth feel numb, burned his tongue.

"You're alright-"

"I want Richie." He said, choking on his own breath. "Radio Richie." Someone immediately went on, Lucas, it sounded like.

"Code red, this is a code red. Come in Mike." It took a few tries, then his voice crackled into the room.

"Lucas, this is Mike. Over."

"Put Richie on. Now. Their monster showed up and attacked Stan, he wants to talk to him. Over." He couldn't look at his arm, he didn't want to, he felt it, the needle, just barely. Saw Max's red hair, her focused blue eyes. That was enough for him.

"Stan, Stanny, are you okay?" Richie sounded panicked, frantic. Stan pulled the _Supercom_ close, even crackling through the radio his voice made the fear ripping through him ease.

"Hey, Richie."

"Oh fuck, fuck that fucking clown, I'm going to murder that thing all over again."

"It was her." He said, voice tiny and terrible. "It was her, the same way she was when she almost chewed my face off."

"I wish I could hold you tight and never let you go, Stanny, this place is a fucking trip. Ellie killed a bunch of commies with her sick powers, we're getting close to the gate, I think. She can sense it, and it's so strange, I think I can sense it too." He relaxed even more, maybe it was the painkillers, but Richie's voice was the most calming thing in the world, he could feel his eyes slipping shut. It was hard to stay alert, he needed to stay awake, to help. "We stole some uniforms and a car thing, we're making really quick progress, but we lost Steve and Robin somewhere, they split to try and find out how to destroy this thing once we actually find it. Dustin is foraging onward, he's got the best sense of direction, it's actually crazy."

"I wish you were here," Stan said into the _Supercom_. "I'm never letting you go again."

"Good, because I'm never letting you go either, this was a fucking awful idea." Richie paused for a second, then kept talking, voice little more than a fast whisper. "I have to go, there are people ahead. I love you, be safe."

"I love you too, Richie. Kill some commies for me."

"Just for you, Stan the Man. Over and out." He slumped back against Beverly's chest, finally gathering the courage to look at his own arm.

He was used to blood, but this was a sight, even for him. His arm had been damaged before, sure, but now it was a hunk of raw meat, gushing blood. He didn't have any skin left on it. It was one big wound, with a chunk torn out where IT had been holding him, stitched back on, the tissue still living. His eyes were dry, and his head was swimming. They gave him too many painkillers, he knew they did, but before he could tell them, he was falling.

-

He woke up to the feeling of cold hands on his skin. It was dark, and quiet. The door was open, the light from the room outside trickling in, soft sheets cradling him, warm flannel and a thick comforter. His arm was stiff, and aching, and someone's icy hands were tracing careful lines over the bandages, so thick he could hardly feel it. They pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

"Eddie said he gave you enough of those pills to knock you out until I got back." Richie told him, voice so gentle, how he always was when they were alone. "It must have been horrible."

"I don't want to talk about it, Rich." He still felt spacey, turning to look at him, watching the world blur. "I'm just glad you're back. Come here." He clumsily pulled at the blankets beside him, and Richie crawled in next to him, tucking his head into his shoulder, arms circling around him. Stan sighed into his skin, tracing a hand over the strange uniform he was wearing, undoing the top few buttons.

"You have no idea how scared I was." Richie whispered, Stan shivered, feeling his icy breath in the hollow of his throat. "You sounded so awful, Stanny, like you were someone else, I was terrified I was going to get back and you would've bled out or something, you've always been everything to me. Losing you would probably kill me."

"Losing you would kill me too." Stan pressed a kiss onto the edge of his jaw, feeling him freeze. "You're everything," He echoed, pressing another kiss to the side of his neck. "And I'm such a fucking _coward_."

"What are you talking about?" Richie whispered, rubbing soft circles into his shoulder, relaxing more when Stan's lips stopped touching his neck.

"I'm so scared of you." The circles stopped, he was frozen again, his icy breath on his neck the only sign that he was even alive. "I'm so in love with you." He sighed, and Richie's voice trembled when he spoke.

"You're tired, you don't mean that. It's alright that you don't want me, Stan. I understand, you don't have to try to... make me feel better or something, it's alright-" Stan kissed his jaw again, just a little, soft touch, taking his hand that was circling his chest, fidgeting with his fingers.

"I do want you." He tried to keep his voice steady, and failed. "I'm just a fucking coward, Richie."

He seemed so shocked by it, like he couldn't imagine someone wanting him. "Really?"

"I've always wanted you, even when we were small. You were my best friend. I wanted to hold your hand, and-and kiss your cheeks, and give you flowers. Do you remember in the first grade, when I gave you a dandelion and you tucked it up in your hair?" His voice got softer, steadier, speaking around a smile. "And you said it was a weed, but you'd wear it there anyway because I was the one that gave it to you?" Richie was just looking at him, lips parted, eyes so wide. "I think I've been in love with you since we were six years old, Richie." Stan realized his eyes were getting misted, a thin layer of tears. He didn't care, he was done being afraid. He was done hiding in the shadows. "I've loved you my entire life, I just didn't have the words to say it, and once I had them, I was such a coward I couldn't even say them out loud."

"Stop calling yourself that." Richie said, grabbing the hand that was playing with his, holding him so tightly. "You aren't a coward, Stan." He laughed.

"I am, I don't know why I can tell you all of this now, but it's probably because I'm still loopy from the painkillers." Stan reached over with a careful hand, cupping his cheek, thumb smoothing over his lips, eyes soft and warm, he knew he was being too soft, too fucking warm, but he didn't care. All he could see was Richie, his anxious black eyes, flecked with little bits of green, his pink mouth, his red cheeks. "God, you're so beautiful." His voice was a little whisper, too warm, too soft and sweet.

"Stan, you don't mean that, go back to sleep, let the painkillers wear off."

"But I do mean it." He sat up, head spinning, world swooping and swaying. "I want you, so badly it almost hurts." Richie shook his head.

"Maybe you do, but when the pills wear off, and you're scared of this again, where will that leave me?" Stan shook his head.

"I'm trying not to be scared anymore, I'm so miserable, all the time. I've got this pain, Ellie said it was because of _IT_, but I think it's really there because I fucking hate myself, and I'm just stuck if I stay the way I am now. With you it doesn't hurt so badly, you make the pain ebb, make it go back like a retreating tide." He sighed. "I would kiss you, but my kisses are kind of meaningless, I kissed Bill today. I had a panic attack before _IT_ showed up, and I was trying to ground myself, I think. It's important that you know that. It's important that you understand that I don't deserve you, and I never will. I'm trying to be better, I'm trying to be happier, and none of it is working, I'm just stuck, and I'm such a disaster without you around, and it hurts. It hurts so badly."

"Take a breath, Stan, you're alright." He realized he was crying, and bit down on his lip, his blood pounding through his veins, racing, he was so angry, and he didn't know why.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to love you." He felt Richie's cold hands in his hair, pulling him closer, if that was even possible. They fit together awkwardly, both too tall, skinny, with long limbs, all skin and sharpened bones. "I'm so sorry."

"Hey, you're alright, just breathe for me." Richie kissed the top of his head, his hairline, he was so cold, his lips sent shivers down his spine.

"You're colder than you were before." Richie stilled.

"We didn't close the gate. We lost Steve and Robin down there, we couldn't find a way to destroy the machine, so we gave up to go look for them. The Russians were torturing them or something."

"You think being near the gate made you colder?" Stan asked, looking up at him. He was staring at the ceiling in Ellie's bedroom, it was covered in little glow-in-the-dark stars. He was connecting constellations, the same way Stan did with his freckles, staring at the spots like stars on his pale skin, watching him go from pale to sunburnt to crimson and peeling every summer, freckles darkening as the air got hot and the months marched onward.

"I think so." Richie looked down at him, caught him staring. His cheeks flamed pink, he couldn't meet his eyes, still looking at those stars, the reflection in the darkness was strange. Green stars in black eyes, words leaving pink lips so casually, like he didn't have the sky trapped inside of him. "You know, I didn't mean to love you either." Stan's head swam, too loopy to form a reaction like he could have sober, staring at him with a heavy tongue and hollow head.

"Me?" He knew he sounded breathless, disbelieving. "Richie, you love everyone."

"No I don't, not the way I love you. I'm so fucking hopeless, so fucking in love with you it's dizzying. I want to be with you, really be with you, and before you spout some bullshit about how you're a coward, or you don't deserve it or something, I don't give a _shit _about any of it. I want you exactly as you are, all the shit you hate included, you're the best thing in my life, even if you don't see it, I do, and I want to kiss you, and touch you, and not just pine like this from a distance, because it's been years, Stan. Fucking years." Stan was less dizzy now, almost sober, the clouds behind his eyes clearing. He cradled Richie's face in his hand. He still had blood under his nails, remnants of his shredded skin and his tired eyes.

He ran his thumb over his bottom lip again, and just looked at him, lips parted, eyes so soft, so serious and bright behind those stupid specs. He felt so warm, pulling him into a kiss, and another, and another, again and again and again. Mouths open, Richie's cold breath in his lungs, tongue slipping past his lips, they werehot and cold, electricity crackling with every touch. He wanted to stay there forever, stay joined by their mouths, joined by their softest touches. Richie held him like glass, like he would shatter if he touched him too carelessly. Every kiss was slow, warm and sweet, honeyed, oozing together like syrup and thin caramel.

Richie leaned away, kissed him again, like he couldn't stop himself, adjusting so he was held above him on an elbow, entire body pressing him into the mattress. They were less careful, but only just, everything was soft, and warm, lips working against his, not bruising, not harsh and desperate, delicate. Every touch whispering _I love you. I want you._

Stan smiled against his mouth, letting out a sharp breath, feeling lips smiling against his too.

"You're really good at that." Richie whispered in a little, unfamiliar voice.

"I had practice." Stan kissed him again, and Richie let out a low sound, almost like a growl, touches harsher.

"Fucking _Denbrough_, you're never touching him again."

"Never." Stan agreed breathlessly, biting at his mouth, at his bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth. "I've got you."

"Damn right you do." The door creaked open, and they didn't move, Stan's hand still cupping his cheek, tracing circles on his skin with his thumb. He looked over, it was Ellie, looking at him with wide, tearful brown eyes, her lips pulled into a tiny smile.

"I found them. I found my dad and Mrs. Byers." Richie got off of him, helping him to his feet, gripping his hand once they were standing, staying so close he could feel the ice thrumming through his veins. He pressed a kiss to his temple, looking down at him so seriously. Richie was six foot three and a half, they had all measured themselves on Hanlon's bedroom wall a month before his mom died, the winter air sharp and strange, almost spring, but still cold enough to bite. Stan was just two inches shorter, but he still had to reach upwards to kiss him, going up on his toes.

"You're good? Not too spacey?" He asked, brows pinched with concern, his glasses on the end of his nose.

"Its manageable, don't worry," He considered him for a moment, nervous to say what he wanted to. "Love." Richie went pink.

"You're mine now." He whispered, so close to his ear he felt every word like cold water on his neck. "And I'm yours. I'm never letting you go again, alright?"

"You're my boyfriend?" Stan connected the dots, Richie beamed.

"If you'll have me." He kissed him again, looking at him, too fucking warmly yet again.

"Of course I'll have you, asshole." Richie was crimson, blushing and avoiding his eyes.

"Nicknames are my gig, Staniel."

"Whatever, Trashmouth." He smiled, butterflies flooding his stomach.

"I like that one best, if I'm honest." Stan held his hand, taking his yarmulke out of his pocket, pinning it in his hair again. He felt like he had to thank someone for the boy holding his hand, for the amount of fear he had faced without dying. If he planned on praying, he had to wear it. He adjusted his clothes, straightening them as best he could with all the dry blood on them, arranging his curls into something a little less messy. He decided he was safe, and they walked into the living room, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room on him, his friends staring at his arms, ignoring him and Richie and their joined hands. All they could see was the blood.

"They're close, really close." Ellie said to the group. "They're at the conspiracy man's house, Murray. Hiding from someone."

"What are we waiting for?" Mike Wheeler asked, glancing at the older teenagers, his sister, her boyfriend, Steve, a girl who Stan assumed was Robin, and Billy. They were all able to drive. Richie was a reckless disaster when he was driving, he liked to turn too fast and play music too loud. He had failed the test four times before he got his license, and he bought himself a shitty old truck with the money he made working over the summer a year ago, wrapped it around a tree four months later and still had an aching spine when he slept funny. "Let's go get them, everybody get in the cars." They listened to him without question.

Something about Mike commanded attention, he could speak to a stadium without a microphone and everyone would listen. He was striking, a shorter version of Richie, especially with his hair in a mess of tangled black curls, his dark eyes surrounded by violently dark purple crescents, exhaustion clinging to him like a fog. They were almost identical. Stan glanced at the wall, the one smeared with his blood.

** _STANLEY-BOY, YOU'LL FLOAT TOO_ **

It was burned into his mind, the puddle of his blood, smeared all over his blue plaid trousers, trailed all over the floor, enough that when they dragged him into that bed it left a slick trail, his black sweater soaked with blood, less noticeable, sleeves pushed back to uncover the bloodstained bandages. Richie followed his gaze, kissing his temple and holding him tighter.

"You alright, Stan?" His mouth felt dry, throat thick and hot.

"Yeah." His voice came out disgusting, clipped and hoarse. "I'm fine, Richie." He stared up at the words, unable to tear his eyes away, heart pounding in his chest. "I just didn't realize I could bleed this much without dying." Richie made a strangled noise and grabbed him by the shoulders, rubbing his skin through the knit sweater, leading him away from the blood. It was useless, all of them had stepped in it, left red footprints everywhere, smeared it on tables and light switches and walls. "Good thing I'm not one of the fags with AIDS, right?" Stan laughed, and it came out all wrong, like he was choking.

"Let's get you outside, alright?" Stan realized he was trembling, shaking like a leaf, his half-numb hands icy in Richie's grip.

"Yeah, outside is good." He said breathlessly, letting Richie lead him out, feeling eyes cutting through him, Bev and Eddie, watching him nervously. The air outside was hot where ever the sun touched it, it felt like the day was stretching into weeks, it should've been dark out by now, but the sun was still high in the sky, timeless and stark, bleaching the world white and gold. The humid air coated the inside of his lungs, the shade blessedly cold.

He fumbled in his pockets, and Richie handed him a cigarette, different from what he usually smoked. Stan smoked Marlboro Blacks, and Richie smoked Lucky Strikes, that's what Bev started him smoking on, when they were thirteen years old, sharing kisses and cigarettes behind stores, high in trees beside each other, Eddie shrieking at them to come down. He lit it with a match, same as always, just a little one from his pocket, his dad could light them on his fingernails, but Stan's hands were too soft, always wrapped in bandages, he could never get it quite right. He took a steadying breath, the smoke settling heavily inside of him, the air too hot around him, so hot the smoke felt cold.

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright, you're allowed to be scared. It was a lot of blood, Stan. It must have been terrifying." He was shaking, sucking in the smoke, too smooth, too sweet. It didn't have the rough, burning bite his cheap cigarettes cut him with, so smooth it almost tasted like nothing at all.

"It was horrible." He shoved the rest of the smoke into Richie's hand, finally finding his little pack, the black box familiar in his hand, a calm flooding him, Pavlovian and chilling. He lit it with trembling hands, the strong taste, like licking an ashtray, so hard and dense he felt it in his toes. It burned his throat, exactly what he wanted, he didn't like Richie's Lucky Lights, he used to, when he first started, now they weren't enough. Nothing felt like enough. "I thought I would die, and you wouldn't know, I thought you were already dead, somehow. That I had jinxed you by not telling you."

"No one is dying, Stan." Richie had the smoke at the corner of his mouth, stubbing it out half-spent, putting it back in his pack so he could hold his hand. The doors opened, and Richie didn't move, one hand in his curls, keeping his head pressed against his chest, chin resting on the top of his head, Stan shifting occasionally to suck more smoke in, Richie stealing a drag and gagging on the taste. "Except you if you keep smoking those fucking things, Jesus Christ."

"They're cheap." Stan said defensively, smiling faintly when Richie's clumsy fingers trembled, putting the cigarette back between his lips.

"For good fucking reason, holy shit those are awful." Stan laughed.

"Awe, little baby misses his Lucky Lights?" Richie shrugged, his smile dark and devilish, eyes hard behind coke-bottle glasses, they sat crooked on his face, taped in the middle. Stan felt a surge of warmth in his chest, affection rushing through him. _What an idiot._

"Doesn't matter what the prices are when you're lifting them." He wiggled his fingers, like a loser, impish and delightful.

"I love you." He whispered casually, watching Richie turn crimson. He could talk about his own dick for hours, but Stan said one affectionate thing, and he was putty, eyes dark and liquid, bottomless. If he fell forward, he could topple inside of them and never stop falling, not until he turned to dust.

"I love you too." Richie whispered back, kissing him again, lips cold and sweet, like frozen lemon cake on a hot summer day, sugary glaze melting in the sun. Stan had a hand at his jaw, the other dangling over his shoulder, still holding the slow-burning cigarette. He felt one cold hand on his wrist, the other on the back of his neck, fingers catching on his curls. He felt so content, licking into his boyfriend's mouth, sucking at his tongue and his bottom lip, slow and soft, gentle as air. They parted, and rested their foreheads together, Stan loved staring into his eyes, the little flecks of green and brown, so tiny you'd never notice them unless you were this close. His head was spinning, breath coming ragged and sharp. Breathless.

The door opened again, and they fell apart, Stan returning to his smoke, Richie still just looking at him.

"Ready?" Bill seemed very prepared, backpack on, a gun strapped to his belt. Richie had an ugly metal bat beside him, Stan had been entrusted with an array of make-shift explosives, a gun shoved into his hands by Beverly. Him and Richie sat across from each other in the trunk of Steve's station wagon, all the seats filled by Mike Wheeler's friends. _The Party_. They drove in uncomfortable silence, trailing behind Nancy and Jonathan, apparently they knew the way.

"Is your monster always like that?" Max finally spoke, Billy was in the front seat, and she was watching him nervously. "Always so specific, targeting an individual?"

"_IT_ has to be, when it's not specific, we aren't as scared, and fear is what gives _IT_ all of it's power, they took Bev because she was physically weak, but she wasn't scared of _IT_, not then, at least." Richie said, glancing at him almost nervously. "_IT_ targeted Stan because he was already vulnerable."

"All it had to do was whisper that you were dying, and I was a fucking wreck." He grabbed his hand, wishing he could have a kiss, or a cigarette, something to do with himself other than wait. "And the Girl from the Painting, _IT's_ almost killed me as her twice now."

"At least your fears aren't fucking ridiculous-"

"Yours are not ridiculous, Richie-"

"A werewolf, my own corpse, and a fucking clown?" Richie rolled his eyes.

"I also had the pile of moving corpses, all the missing kids." Stan said, pulling his _Birdwatching Handbook_ out of his coat pocket. "Which I fought off with this, that is fucking ridiculous, babe. Plus, Pennywise scares all of us, you aren't the only one with a clown phobia. Not anymore, at least."

"_I'm Pennywise the Dancing Clown, Eater of Worlds!_" He mimicked. "_Beep beep, Richie! You'll float too!_" He was getting too good at the imitations, Stan had goose flesh climbing his arms.

"Not right now, alright?"

"_Why, Stanley-Boy-_"

"Beep fucking beep, Richie." His mouth snapped shut.

"Sorry." Stan just pulled him to the other side of the car, cradling his head against his shoulder. "I don't mean to be-"

"I know, Trashmouth. You're just an idiot."

"You wound me with that cruel, talented tongue! My love, my dove, the light of my life, holder of my heart!"

"I hate you." Stan groaned, Richie beamed, impish and beautiful, and god did he love him.

"Nope! You said you love me, no take-backs."

"You're unbearable." Stan muttered, not meaning a word of it. "Actually impossible to be around, unlikable and unloveable."

"I love you too, Stanny." Richie pressed a wet kiss to his cheek, loud and obnoxious as everything he did and does. "I'm so glad you agreed to be my boyfriend, isn't it grand?"

"Just wonderful." Stan said, voice a dry, clipped monotone. "I'm absolutely ecstatic, can't you tell? I'm practically glowing." A smile slipped through, an old routine, and Richie laughed, a bright, startling sound. When they were goofing off like this, they stayed in character until the bitter end, cackling on bike rides home, trading real stories with a safe distance between them. Walls up. Stan let himself smile properly, Richie shaking with small giggles.

"I missed you most, when I was gone." He told him in a whisper, too loud, he never knew the difference between loud and quiet, he shouted in class, and spoke when he whispered.

"I missed you most when you were gone too, I don't know who I am without you." Stan actually whispered, and Richie went bright pink. He kissed him, just because he could, quick and chaste and icy.

They stopped in front of a house, at least, Stan thought it was a house. It looked more like some kind of compound, with tall wire fences, and shitty graffiti on the bleak, concrete walls. Nancy and Jonathan were already at the doors, arguing with no one, they were freed from the trunk, staying close, holding hands and glancing up at each other, always accidentally meeting eyes and getting lost, hopelessly and irrecoverably.

"You know us! We know our parents are in there!" The door slid open, and a strange man stood in the doorway. He looked like a hippie, if a hippie had dropped bombs instead of acid. A gun slung over his back, with frazzled brown hair, a thick beard, wire-rimmed glasses, he was in a dirty wife beater and jeans. Stan thought he was absolutely terrifying.

"Who the fuck are all these kids?" He asked, glaring at Stan in particular, at his yarmulke, and his hand in Richie's and the match he was spinning nervously between his fingers, the blood covering him from head to toe.

"It's all my blood." Stan said quickly, putting the match between his teeth, peeling back a bandage to show some of his arm. Raw, ruined and bloody. Richie pulled the bandage back down, glaring at him. "It's not like we murdered someone."

"Stop doing that." He said, and Stan actually managed a smile, he looked so concerned, so nervous.

"It's alright, love." He said around the match, taking it out from between his teeth, putting it between the other boy's lips instead, watching him turn pink. "You worry too much."

"Says you of all fucking people." The man was watching them nervously, the back of his head a heavy focus, it seemed.

"I don't like Jews, and I really don't like Russians," All of the Party members went white, but the Losers Club just took a step toward him, protectively. They were used to this, when he wore his yarmulke, he felt a familiar surge of affection, Ben had stepped directly between him and the stranger, Richie lifting his bat, ready to level it toward him like some kind of sword. "But, I already have a Russian bastard in here, and fags are generally trustworthy, so why not? Come in, everybody, but don't touch anything!"

His friends didn't relax, Bill finding his place at his other side, walking him in like security escorts or something.

"Hand over your weapons." He said once they were in the little box of a foyer. Obediently, Jonathan and Nancy piled in everything they had, and the rest of them followed suit. Makeshift explosives, Molotov cocktails, fireworks, little bags of ammunition, about a dozen handguns, knives, baseball bats, Steve's, studded with nails, a fucking bear trap Lucas had been carrying in a messenger bag, and a slingshot. The man eyed the box nervously, probably thinking of the explosives. "Thanks." He said, voice crackling slightly. "Welcome to my humble abode, once again, don't fucking touch anything. Hopper, Joyce, your kids are here, and very heavily armed."

Stan didn't know what he had been expecting from Will and Jonathan's monster fighting mother, but it definitely wasn't this. Slight, pale and tired looking, with dark eyes like Jonathan's, and a tiny, slender frame like Will's, fiercely beautiful, in a t-shirt, flannel, and jeans. She looked like she had been a dark kind of pretty in her youth, but now she was too exhausted to be anything but a doting mother. Her hand was cupping Will's cheek, she was calling him "_Baby_" and asking him how he had found her, wrapping him in a tight hug.

His eyes were stinging, the rest of the Losers watching alongside him, like they were observing an alien ritual. All of their parents had been shitty, Ben and Mike a rare exception, but even they hadn't had this. Stan was reminded of his own mother, suddenly, cold and distant, with icy, honey eyes he'd inherited, her long blonde hair pale and straight as a ruler, features sharp. He looked like her, people told him. He didn't think so, all he had gotten from her were his dead eyes, and his hollow heart. She didn't even speak to his father, except to use her clever tongue, to make him turn arguments around all on his own, until he was the one at fault, spinning spiderwebs of cunning manipulation, teaching him how to ruin people without lifting a finger. She had only cried in front of him once, the smell of white wine clinging to her, clutching him by the shoulders, her fingernails digging into his skin.

_"You can't let them see you hurting, baby."_ She had held him by his chin, those red nails almost drawing blood. _"Especially not your father, not men like him. When you get married, marry for love, for passion, don't make any poor girl feel like this. Promise you won't be like him. Promise me."_ Her eyes had been cloudy, dead even then, even when they were red with tears.

_"I promise, momma."_

"Stan?" He realized, distantly, that he had been staring, that Will was looking at him nervously. Everyone was nervous with him lately. "You alright?"

"I'm fine." He said stiffly, the words far away and hollow. Richie grabbed his hand, and it helped, again, from a distance. "Just remembering that I have a mother."

"Oh shit, your parents, what did you tell them?" He shrugged, fidgeting with another match. "What did any of you tell your parents?"

"Nothing, really, no one cares about missing kids in Derry." Bev said, rolling her eyes and gesturing at herself. "Case and point."

"You didn't tell your parents you were leaving?" Mike Hanlon looked horrified, dark eyes all wide. Unreasonably surprised.

"Mikey, our parents don't give a shit about us." Eddie reminded him, though his mother was definitely having a meltdown at that very moment. "My mom deserves to panic anyways, the fucking cunt." No one argued with him. Everyone hated Sonia Kaspbrak.

"Stan, your parents do care about you-"

"Not really, they'll be moved on by now. One less thing to worry about." He said, his father's bruising fist at the forefront of his mind, his bottom lip vanishing into his mouth when he was angry, his hard eyes, his close cropped black hair that grew into wild curls when he let it. "I just told them I ran away, left a note. They're practical people. Probably helped out my dad with his planning for temple, speeches about grief and shit are great for getting big turnouts, everyone wants to watch the rabbi crack. It's good gossip. Especially when everyone knew I was having a crisis or faith or whatever." Richie looked disgusted, Will staring at him in abject horror.

"Holy hell that's awful, are your parents really that bad?"

"No, they're just distant. When they speak to me it's usually to reprimand me for something, but that's to be expected. I've had a good deal compared to Bev, or Bill, or Richie, or Eddie, or-"

"Alright, I get it." His mother was looking at him, her dark eyes strangely intense. He felt uncomfortable, like she could see through him.

"Will, who are these people? I don't recognize them." Will spun, lips parting and closing so rapidly it was almost funny.

"I'm Mike Wheeler's long lost twin brother from Maine, and this is my family." Richie did a broad gesture. "Mike Hanlon, Eds-"

"That's not my _goddamn_ _name, Trashmouth_-"

"Beverly, Bill, Ben, and last but most certainly not least, my wonderful, beautiful, stunning boyfriend, Stan Uris, sexiest Jew alive."

"I fucking hate you." He said, voice an unwavering monotone.

"Love you too, babes." Richie pressed another obnoxious kiss to his cheek, beaming when Stan allowed it, lips curling up at the edges despite his attempts to look disinterested. "Anyways, we're the _Losers Club,_ my mom kicked it, so here I am, we already fought monsters in Derry, one monster, actually, but it was a shapeshifter so we can count it as a few, we know all about the Upside Down, and we're here to kick the Mind Flayer's ass." He rattled it all off like it was some kind of list. "We've been inside the Russian base under Hawkins, and we can get in again, we have uniforms. We also know all about the gate, everything but how to break the machine and close it for good."

"Chill, Richie." Mike said from across the room. "She's gonna keel over if you rush too much info into her that fast."

"She's a-alright, right Mrs. B-B-Byers?" Bill was still uncomfortably close to him, affectionate and relaxed, glancing at him with warm brown eyes. Shit.

"Cool it, mushmouth-"

"Beep fucking beep, asshole." Eddie fired off behind them. "Don't make fun of his stutter, that material is so goddamn old."

"Funny, so is your mom but I still bang her every-"

"Beep beep, Richie." The Loser's Club, and Mike Wheeler said in unison, sharing delighted smiles when he deflated, mouth snapping shut.

"My own brother!" He cried dramatically. "Micheal Theodore Wheeler, what do you have to say for yourself?"

"Next time be the good twin." Stan said quietly behind him, and Mike choked on a laugh.

"Yeah, that."

"I am the good twin, I'm nice and tall, see?" He stood beside Mike, and it was true, he was half a foot taller, looked stronger too, but they had the same face, the same wild, damp curls.

"You're also blind as a bat."

"Bats aren't blind actually." Stan interjected. "Most actually have better vision than people, it's the same misconception that-"

"No one cares, Uris." Eddie said, and he swallowed his words. "Richie is fundamentally useless without his specs, it's a valid argument."

"He's not useless, he still has his mouth."

"That's all you're worried about, right Stanny?"Richie winked at him, and he felt his entire body turn red.

"Maybe it is." Bev smacked the back of his head, knocking his curls askew.

"Stop flirting in front of Will's mom you disgusting pack of queers." She scolded. "What if she was homophobic or something?"

"Then we would have to fight her." Eddie decided.

"T-to the d-death." Bill added, smiling at Stan a little too warmly.

"Yes." He agreed, avoiding his friend's gaze. "It would be an unfortunate battle, but a fair one."

"Plus, Wheeler is a _massive_ fag, so that would probably pose for some interesting problems with him and Will."

"Richie, you asshole! Shut up!" Mike snapped, turning a very Tozier shade of crimson, one he had seen his best friend wear since the day they met.

"What? It's true, you told Will already," He wiggles his eyebrows. "Told isn't how _I'd_ put it, but-" Stan slapped a hand over his mouth, voice a tiny whisper, barely more than a breath.

"If you shut your mouth, I'll blow you later." Richie's eyes went wide, his entire face glowing, so red he looked feverish. He nodded slowly, and Stan removed his hand.

"Sorry, I'm just..."

"Nervous. I know." He took his hand, smoothing his thumb over his knuckles. "I am too." Richie looked down at him, not teasing or loud, just looking at him, eyes soft and hands gentle on his skin. The little flecks of green were dizzying, Stan felt weak in the knees, Richie’s hidden, tender little smile, soft and sweet. He had only seen it directed towards him, and every time it crossed his lips, he felt impossibly warm.

"You need to sit." He suddenly snapped to attention. "You lost a lot of blood, is there any food in this place?" The man, Murray, slid a loaf of bread and a jaw or peanut butter across the counter, along with a blunt butter knife.

"What happened?" He was looking at him like he was puzzling something out, not like he was concerned for him or something. He grabbed his arm, looking at the bandages, the blood.

"I was attacked by the monster that followed us from Derry." A chill spread through the room.

"What monster?" He asked, and Stan jerked his arm out of his grip, goosebumps rising on the back of his neck.

The lights went out, very suddenly, and sound filled the air, filled his skull.

"_Where's my shoe?_" A thin, feminine voice asked, frail and quiet. A light came on somewhere, and her face was lit up, dirty and smeared with blood.

"Oh fuck, it's Betty Ripsom." Bill whispered, stumbling backwards, glancing at Richie nervously.

"_Can you help me find my shoe?_" She whispered. "_It's so dark. I’m scared.”_

Murray frantically pulled out a flashlight, and before they could warn him, shone it on her. She let out an ungodly shriek when the light hit her, a blood curdling scream. Her legs were gone. "_You'll float too!_" She cried, blood bubbling between her lips, reeking of piss and shit and rotting flesh. "_You'll float too! You'll float too! You'll float too!_" The light flickered out, and her mouth opened in another scream of pure agony, things flying out, crawling out, bugs, millions of them, swarming in the air. Centipedes, spiders, flies, maggots pouring to the floor around her, suspended from the ceiling, hanging by her neck.

The light went out, and Stan could feel the monster in front of them, feel the deadlights.

"Miss me, Richie?" The lights came on again, and it was Pennywise, standing not two inches away from them, Richie gripping his hand so tightly he drew blood, Pennywise, it was _Pennywise_, with his skull cracked where he had been bludgeoned with a bat, furiously staring down at him. A hand cupping his cheek, nails cutting little marks on his face. "I missed you, and your delicious fear, I wish you'd just given him up, given up your sweet Billy, the one who's been fucking your boyfriend longer than you even knew you loved him." Richie's expression twisted, defenceless, tongue thick and heavy and useless in his mouth. "What? Nothing to say?" Pennywise leaned in close, a smile cutting over his lips. "Remember Richard, Stanley-Boy will blow you if you keep your mouth shut." It opened its mouth wide, all of its rows of teeth rotten and sharp as needles crackling into place, getting closer and closer to his boyfriend, about to close over his face, the same thing _IT_ had done to him on Neibolt.

Stan ripped his hand out of Richie's grip, grabbed a metal barstool from the counter, and clubbed _IT_ in the head with it. He didn't know where he found the strength, but he didn't stop, hitting it until it crumpled to the floor. He snapped _IT's_ neck, but it clicked back into place, focused on him this time.

"Oh, you don't like it when you're not the centre of attention, do you, Stanley-Boy?" Stan grabbed the chair again, and swung, connecting hard. A sickening crack filled the air when it caved in the weak part of _IT's_ skull.

"Don't you _ever_ fucking touch him again." He snarled, hitting the monster so hard the bottom of the stool snapped off. Again, and again, and again. "Don't you fucking come near him, we’re going to kill you, we're going to end you, you're going float this time." He stabbed it through _IT's_ chest, so angry he was seeing red. "Don't you lay a finger on him." Pennywise just laughed, the pole stuck clean through him, winking at Stan, and melting into the floor, nothing left of it but the stench of decay and a puddle of dark red blood. Stan crouched to the floor, too weak to stand, and screamed into his fist, swallowing sobs.

Richie fell beside him, pulling him into his arms. The lights flickered back on.

Betty's corpse was still there, half rotten, clearly half eaten by some beast. Her yellow shirt had a message written on it in her blood, or in something else. In his.

_ **ALL FAGGOTS FLOAT** _

Eddie gagged at the sight of her, covered in maggots and flesh so rotten it dripped off of her, a loose layer of skin.

"Poor Betty." Beverly sighed, getting closer, not squeamish, not anymore. She looked up at the Party, and the adults, who looked completely horrified. "She went missing in Derry, four years ago. This is what _IT_ does to you. This is what it looks like when you float."

"You fought this thing when you were thirteen?" Will stepped closer, touching her forehead, ignoring his friends disgusted cries. "Oh my god."

"There is no God, not a good God, at least." Stan whispered, watching Will's eyes roll back, watching Richie touch him and do the same.

His mother, looking at him through a glass of wine, saying something to his father, something that made him cry, her eyes still cold and empty. His father hitting him with a belt. "_It's for your own good, Stanley._" His mother, crying, clutching him, pleading with him, drunk out of her mind "_You're too good to be like him, you're too good, promise again, Stan, promise me. Please. Again._"

He jerked back, staring at Richie with wide eyes.

"You- you were-"

"Shining." Murray said, watching him, watching Will. "You boys shine, like Eleven over here, you can see glimpses into the past of a place, the present somewhere else, history and all of its ghosts. It's an observable phenomena, for instance, at the Overlook Hotel incident two years ago, the-"

"We shine?" Richie asked, and Will stood, staring at Betty Ripsom, at her bug covered corpse, half of her, her organs hanging out. He stumbled backwards.

"I saw her memories." He held out his hand like it had been burnt. Badly.

"I saw Stan's." Richie looked at his hand, his nails painted black, wide and flat and beautiful. "Your dad, you never told me he did that."

"You didn't need to know." Stan said, and Richie touched him again, just his hand this time.

His dad, slapping him, gesturing to his room, trying to hide his tears. Stan, sitting in his bathtub in all of his clothes, thirteen years old with bare arms, holding a kitchen knife, calm and steady, cutting two perfect, deep lines over his wrists. He wanted to die. He had his yarmulke on, so he bowed his head to pray, sitting in the bathtub, and shattering. He sobbed, and clutched at his knees, whispering to his God over and over again "_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._" His bar mitzvah, the only person in the crowd he cared about seeing, Richie, in that stupid blue suit. Richie, floating through his mind in his bedroom, doodling back curls, then stabbing himself with the pencil. "_Stupid,_" He stabbed it in again. "_Disgusting,_" He pulled at it, tearing through the skin on his arm. "_Faggot._" So full of self hatred he could feel it in his blood, pounding through him.

Bill, curled in his bed, cross legged and staring at the ceiling. "_Richie k-kissed me._" A guilty glance.

"_Why?_" Stan, pretending to be cool, disinterested, looking at him icily. Hot hatred bubbling in his stomach, fear too.

"_I think I-I might b-be queer._" Bill's curls, cinnamon in the sunlight, his eyes, coffee brown, his lips a little chapped. Stan couldn't imagine him kissing anyone, never mind someone as beautiful as Richie, as vibrant and alive. "_B-but I'm n-not sure._"

"_So, you need someone to experiment with?_" His voice was cold, calculated, eyes hollow and icy. He wondered if this was how his mother felt. Powerful.

"_I-I figured since y-you and R-Richie are best f-f-friends and you're s-s-straight, you wouldn't m-mind-_"

"_The thing is, Bill,_" Stan looked him up and down, his t-shirt, a size too big, his fat lip, the bruises all over him, fifteen and covered in marks from grasping hands. He felt nothing for him, nothing at all. "_I'm not straight._"

"_What?_" Bill looked so alarmed, so surprised it was almost hilarious. "_B-but you're, you're Stan. You couldn't l-like boys._" He seemed so shaken, looking at him like he was a stranger, like Stan had never expressed interest in anyone. His friends probably thought he was asexual or something.

"_The problem is, I do, I mean, I think I do._" He leaned closer, looking at him, trying to be soft and failing. "_I really think I might need someone to experiment with._" Bill's gaze darted to his lips, then back to his eyes, then back again.

"_A-are you p-proposing w-we-?_" Stan kissed him, and it was harsh almost immediately, bruising and passionate. Bill dragged him around by his hair, and let Stan do whatever he wanted to him, slamming him against walls, biting him, bruising him, even hitting him, just because he knew he could. Bill had been all fire, and now there was nothing left but ashes, they had burned up too quickly, showing it in flashes. Kissing, biting, nails down Stan's back, bruises on Bill's hips, split lips, a furious fist fight, ending with them fucking on his bedroom floor, Bill patching up his cuts, pressing kisses to the bandaids, stitching him up, then biting the cuts on the inside of his thighs when he sucked him off, Stan whispering harshly "_I can't feel it unless it hurts- do it harder._" Bill, screaming at him, his stutter gone.

"_I'm not going to be another thing you use to hurt yourself!_" Stan's hand, lightning fast, smacking him across the face. His stricken look, face red, eyes wide. Absolute betrayal.

"_I'm so sorry, Billy, I didn't mean it, I swear I didn't mean it-_"

Both of them, sitting by the quarry, splashing water at each other.

"_Asshole_."

Stan, with barely disguised contempt. "_Give me my meds back._"

"_Why? So you can try to kill yourself with them again?_" Bill looked at him like he was made of glass, terrified to even touch him now. "_Trying again won't bring him back, Stan_."

"_I don't care if he comes back-_"

"_You're in love with him._" Bill was so fucking pitying. "_You care about Richie more than anything, I'm just convenient._"

He didn't have a defence for that.

He flinched back violently, staring at Richie, chest heaving, eyes huge.

"You, and Bill, you-"

"We can talk about it later. In private, preferably." Bill was absolutely crimson.

"He saw us? What did he-"

"All the bad parts." He watched his coffee coloured eyes go wide.

"Yeah, you should definitely discuss that," His eyebrows were furrowed. "All of the bad parts? Like every single one?" Stan shook his head.

"Just glimpses, but bad glimpses. When we would hurt each other."

"So, all the time?" Bill wrinkled his nose in disgust. "I'm never touching you like that again, it was awful for both of us, all we did was take and take and take."

"I'm aware." Stan didn't touch Richie again, looking up at Murray, who was examining the puddle of blood on the floor, the crumpled heap of metal that had been a chair once.

"You've got a pretty good swing, Stan." He eyed him appreciatively. "Good in a crisis."

"No he isn't." Eddie snorted. "He was just fast because Richie was in danger, that thing sliced up his arms earlier and he just let it happen, he's awful in a crisis, but amazing if he's saving Richie. It's bizarre."

"Young love." Murray groaned. "Disgusting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you enjoyed the chapter let me know! this was a BITCH to edit, but writing for stan is easy as breathing. lowkey giving ur characters some of ur mental illnesses makes them so fun to write lmao 
> 
> i have a girlfriend!! lesbian rights babey!! i went to a party with her and met all her friends, they were shitfaced and high as hell but they were all so nice , they were all in dreamland so we basically spent the whole time making out on a mattress in the basement and watching them play family feud?? lit as hell


	10. jane hopper is a weapon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleven goes up in flames, her and Stan discover a strange new power.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY ITS BEEN AGES, i’m taking two english courses this semester (comprehensive and literary) and the teachers assign like an hour of homework every night it’s a nightmare (also a dream because i actually really like writing essays), i also have to spend time with my lovely, beautiful, wonderful girlfriend who enjoys dragging me to parties every weekend, which is fun, but very bad for my productivity.   
ANYWAYS, enough excuses, let’s get at ‘em!!!!
> 
> TW: violence, references to injuries
> 
> song for the chapter is if you love me, come clean by flatsound, era appropriate song for the chapter is you’re my best friend by queen.

She couldn't figure out a word that fit Beverly Marsh. She spent months with her father, all those years ago, stuffing thousands of words into her skull, so many she still choked on them, and yet, with the vocabulary of a child, it seemed she could sum her up on the most basic level, like she had with Nancy Wheeler in that unfamiliar bedroom, staring at a grainy photograph.

_Pretty._

She was pretty, her short red hair always curled, her yellow overalls smeared with bloody handprints, icy blue eyes, full of light and laughter. El had been dutifully ignoring her presence, but now, in Murray's overcrowded house, all they could do was wait, and watch, and talk in low whispers. Mike and Will were on the couch, limbs tangled together so tightly it seemed like they would never come apart, nothing but low mumbles and sharp laughter. Richie, she had a new word for him now. _Protector_, earned when he stepped between her and the barrel of a loaded gun in those labyrinths of tunnels, almost getting a hole blown clean through him. He was kissing Stan. She didn't mean to see it, but it was almost impossible to miss. They were curled in that puddle of blood on the floor, Richie's blood-covered hand smearing red on Stan's milk-pale cheek, eyes closed, hands gripping him so tightly his split knuckles turned white. It was impossibly tender, even looking at it, El felt like she was being flayed alive, utterly exposed. Bill was stuck talking to Murray, he looked angry, his face as red as his hair. Eddie and Mike were talking to Ben, huddled around Betty Ripsom's corpse, debating something disgusting, based on the way Eddie's face was turning green.

Lucas was arguing with Dustin, almost definitely about his little sisters involvement, Robin was sitting dejectedly beside the Russian prisoner, who was sipping something from a fast-food cup, Steve on his other side, Max messing around with a knife she had smuggled in beside him. Joyce was staring at Mike and Will on the couch, eyebrows furrowed, probably because of the cigarette Mike was lighting. It also could have been Richie's joke earlier, about him liking boys, paired with the fact him and Will were so close they were merging into one, fingers locked together, Will's hand steady, a smile on his lips when he sucked some of Mike's menthol smoke into his lungs.

Richie had stolen the package of cigarettes on the way out, talking to a cashier at the Tobacconist until he was distracted enough, El using her powers to float all five packs he wanted into his open messenger bag. She hadn't really wanted to take part, but the way his eyes lit up, the first time looking more alive than dead after he got the news about his monster, she felt an obligation to keep him looking like that. Impish and alive. So, the menthols had found a home in Mike's pocket. She flinched away when they kissed, instinctively looking into the one corner she'd been ignoring, the one Beverly sat in, all alone.

Her blue eyes were almost magnetic, meeting El's brown ones, looking at her through the warm room with a gaze so sharp and cutting it was almost knifelike. El had always felt like a weapon, something deadly, made to kill and maim and hurt. Beverly looked the part, far more than El did, with her short curls and red lipstick. Beverly stood, and stepped toward her, El swore she could feel the heat of her skin from across the room. By the time Beverly was beside her, her blood felt like it was on fire, screaming through her veins so violently it was almost unbearable.

The girl was made of fire, made consume her, made to turn her to nothing but ash.

"You alright?" Her voice was lower than any girl she had ever met before, it was wrapping around her bones, holding them tight enough to shatter them, to shatter her completely.

"Yeah, I've never seen _IT_ before." She glared at the can in front of her, Coca-Cola. "I should've just..." She raised her hand, watching it float in front of her so peacefully, curling her hand into a fist. It popped, and crumpled until it was the size of a thick quarter, it dropped when her hand did, into a puddle of flat pop. "Ended it. I was too panicked, when it touched him, I just froze."

"That's what _IT_ does, Ellie, it makes you feel powerless."

"I never feel powerless." She glanced at the beautiful girl beside her, and the words died in her throat. _A lie_. "Well, not physically at least. Sometimes I feel powerless talking to other people, especially when I first got out of the lab. I built my whole life around Mike because he was sweet to me, he explained the world in words he knew I could understand. I thought that was what love was supposed to be." She looked at him, he was staring at Will like he stared at the stars at night, at a harvest moon, pointing out constellations to her, voice a warm whisper beside her, hand in hers _That star right there isn't a star, El, it's a planet. Venus, named after the goddess of love._ "I guess we were both just scared."

"You used to date?" Beverly didn't sound judgemental, maybe a little disappointed.

"For three years, we're done with that now, though." She smiled at him fondly, he noticed her staring and smiled that soft, secret smile he only shared with her, different from the one for Will somehow. He glanced at Beverly and winked, she felt her cheeks get hot. What an idiot. "He's my best friend. Plus, we wanted different things, things we couldn't give each other."

"He wanted Will." Beverly said, watching them more carefully than El had, they were strangers, she reminded herself. It was funny how easily she forgot about it, how little it mattered to her.

"And I wanted... well..." She giggled. "Girls, I guess." Beverly looked at her, her blue eyes swallowing her whole. Her laughter died in her throat, and she wasn't laughing either, just staring at her with those startling, incredible eyes, red hair falling over her scarred cheek. El felt voiceless, breathless, powerless. All the words she had swallowed retreating from her mind as though they had never existed at all.

"Girls?" She nodded, willing her hands to stop shaking, especially when Beverly's hand touched hers. She was hot as an open flame, her touch like a shredded nerve, it was all El could feel, all she could focus on, she was being consumed. "Me too, with my version, I guess. Me and Richie dated for like a month in ninth grade, and it was the worst mistake I've ever made." El laughed, small and bright, watching Beverly turn a light pink. Pretty.

"I pick words for people, to organize them in my head," El started, feeling Beverly's fingertips creeping over hers, her hand covering hers almost completely. "Richie has two now. Unfinished, like a project, half developed. His other word is protector. He doesn't seem like someone who would be a mistake."

"Unfinished?" She sounded confused

"Look at him, he's all lopsided. He hurts but he doesn't mean to, he's not like me, or you, he's not a weapon, his edges just haven't been sanded down yet. The first day I met him I already loved him a little. It's hard not to love him." He was tugging one of Stan's curls, laughing when he scowled at him. "He's just got some growing to do. He just has to be completed, he'll do it in his own time." She glanced over, and Beverly had already been staring at her, her eyes were the same shade of blue as one of Will's expensive coloured pencils, his favourite one, the one he used to colour in the sky. _Cerulean_.

"What's Mike's?" Her fingers were hot to the touch, dry and scar covered, all of them had carved up hands. El should ask about it.

"Harsh." She said, voice small. "Strong, maybe, something that isn't gentle, he's indelicate. A force of nature." She carried on, glancing at the boy he was in love with. "Will is fragile, they shouldn't go together, but they do. Max is volatile, like an explosive. Dustin is loving, and loud, he always makes me smile, even when I feel so miserable it's like I'm in a fog, Lucas is indestructible, he feels like he's made of diamond or something, nothing can touch him. He's like a voice of reason." Beverly was smiling, thumb rubbing careful circles on the back of her hand.

"Do I have a word yet?" She leaned in closer, and El felt like a rubber band was wrapping around her lungs, compressing them, squeezing out every bit of air until she was breathless and lightheaded. The word bubbled to her lips, floating in the air between them, instinctive and damning.

"Annihilating." Beverly's eyes went wide, so close El could count her golden eyelashes, smell the dirty cigarettes on her breath. She was so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her.

Richie's voice shattered their breathless stare, he settled on the couch beside her, his tangled mess of hair in her lap. "Lesbian rights! Am I right ladies?" He raised a hand for a high-five, ignoring Beverly's irritated huff.

"Lesbian rights?" El echoed, voice small.

"Fuck yes, that's the spirit, Ellie!" He was pretty too, even with bloody hands and kiss-swollen lips. He was lighting a cigarette, handing it to her, a wide smile on his face. He felt even colder now, made of ice. She ran an affectionate hand through his hair, taking a long breath of smoke, blowing it in his eyes. He blinked owlishly up at her, still in his stolen Russian uniform, the one they had taken off a corpse. She brushed his hair aside and kissed his forehead, watching him go red.

"Within us all, the spirit is." She giggled, letting go of Beverly's hand to pass her the cigarette, trying and failing to braid Richie's hair.

"Calm down, Yoda." He laughed, cheeks still pink.

Beverly looked entirely enchanting with a cigarette between her lips, casual and relaxed, kissing smoke into the air. "I am not a lesbian, you prick."

"Well gosh, Beverly, how could I have forgotten!" He rolled his eyes. "Bisexual bitches, you and I."

"Ellie is the only lesbian here." She glanced at her, her cerulean eyes finding El's brown ones, electricity crackling between them, magnetism. She felt like her entire face was on fire, another favourite in Will's collection, _Venetian Red_, thick oil paint flooding her veins. "Isn't that right, Doll?"

"Max is bisexual." She said faintly, blood pounding between her ears.

"I didn't ask if anyone else was bisexual, though, did I?" El felt so breathless she was vaguely worried she would pass out, her head swimming.

"Y-yeah." She looked back down at her hands, at Richie, who was looking at her so smugly, she tugged on his hair, lips twitching into a smile when he cried out.

"Ouch! What the fuck, Ellie?" She smiled innocently, feeling like maybe he was a bad influence on her.

"_Oops_."

"You don't sound that bothered." He mock-glared, and she leaned closer, blowing warm breath, fogging up his thick glasses.

"That's because I'm not." She told him, like she was letting him in on some grand secret, he was looking at her resentfully, wiping his glasses on his uniform violently.

"You're a fucking menace-"

"Hey! Three inches!" Her father's voice cut through the air like a gunshot, he was apparently just coming back inside. She immediately looked at Mike, and the second their eyes met, they burst into laughter, the frantic, relieved kind, everyone else eyeing them with quirked lips and furrowed brows.

"Dad, it's just Richie." She giggled, and he didn't relax.

"You know the rules." El sighed, exasperated.

"Mike and I are both gay, you're so paranoid, it's ridiculous." His mouth fell open.

"You're- But both of you- your-" she ran a hand through Richie's curls, trying to detangle them.

"_Gay_, Dad." He let out a punching laugh, long and low.

"Thank god, don't have to worry about you and that fucking boy." He marched over, grabbed her off the couch, and pulled her into a hug, so tight it almost hurt. His hand was in her hair, his lips pressed forcefully against her forehead. He was so large, and warm, her father. Steady and safe, his word was simple, all encompassing.

Home.

"I love you, kid. No more hiding." She nodded against his chest, feeling so small, a child all over again, warm and comfortable in the arms of the one person in the world who would love her like this, unconditionally.

"No more hiding." She agreed, and tears prickled at her eyes, he leaned away, wiping tears from his cheeks. He looked tired, drained and stressed out, more grey in his moustache, his prickly facial hair growing in, wearing his favourite shirt, his floral button up she used to steal when she swam in Steve's pool, slinging it on over her bathing suit. "Missed you."

"I missed you too, kid." She smiled, and fell back onto the couch, laughing when Richie groaned.

"God, you weigh a fucking tonne-" His voice was muffled.

"Shut up, Trashmouth." Beverly was smiling at her, and El could feel the colour rushing back. Venetian red. Cerulean blue.

"Shove off, Ellie." He was lifting her like she weighed nothing at all, settling himself back in her lap, Stan and Bill whispering with Will and Mike, Murray ranting in Russian, eyeing Stan resentfully every few minutes. She didn't like Stan very much, he was careless with himself, he had hurt Richie, and helped Will hurt Mike, no one was allowed to touch them. Her boys.

"Fuck you, Richie." He gasped, pretending to be offended.

"Hey, language!" Her father, that booming voice, familiar as air. She rolled her eyes. "Just because it's the apocalypse doesn't mean you get to start cursing, Jane."

"Sorry." She looked down at Richie, glancing up to see if her dad's back was turned, and gave him the finger. He licked it.

"That's fucking disgusting." Beverly looked genuinely horrified.

"Bev, you've had my tongue in your mouth, and _that's_ what you find disgusting?"

"Don't remind me, fuckface." She said, and El couldn't even look at her, from the corner of her eye, all she could see was her soft smile, fond and gentle.

"Richie, Ellie, Bev, we might have figured something out." Stan was standing beside Bill, still stiff, uncomfortable. El didn't like being near him, his pain was loud and ugly, a dark, leeching thing. He was like poisonous air, choking her breath. She met his eyes, catlike and cold, pain shooting through her.

Most people didn't affect her like this, she usually had to reach for their pain, it was a physical thing, a choice. His jumped out at her, reminding her vaguely of the vines from the Upside Down, wrapping around her, dark and slick and horrible. He was probably a good person, Richie loved him enough she was convinced he had something special about him, but she couldn't see past the pain. It was almost blinding. His eyes narrowed, then softened when his gaze followed her arm, the grasp she had on Richie, hand in his air, a clearly protective. She would kill anyone to keep him safe, his energy was impossible to describe, warm and light, like a hot summer day, he was gentle, and caring, and if he stuck around, she would gladly keep him forever. He was her boy, him and Mike. The Tozier twins. She reached out, prodding at Stan's mind, a new thing. She was only able to do it with him, with Stan. They were connected, and she didn't know why. She reached outward, and locked their minds together, all of the pain she felt when she looked at him vanishing like smoke. She knew he could feel it too, tears flooding his eyes.

_"Can I try something?_" She spoke directly into his mind. His mouth fell open, words pouring out.

"Holy shit, Holy shit, Eleven?" His eyes looked like they were about to fall out of his head, a hand on his chest, flat, like he was checking his pulse, she raised an eyebrow.

"_You heard me?"_

"How did you- how did you do that?" Richie sat bolt upright, looking between them, hands grasping at the air.

"What's happening? What did you do?" Stan looked dazed.

"She can- her voice- my head-"

"We can use this." She said, offering him a bright smile, finally able to see clearly, now that it didn't hurt like hell to look at him.

"Can you do that with everyone?" Stan asked, and she didn't speak, pouring the words into his head.

"_Only tried with you, we're connected. I don't know why._" His golden eyes went all strange when she spoke to him, his left eye darkening to her colour, to a warm brown. She didn't know how she hadn't noticed the first time. She willed her vision onto him, so he could see. "You see it?"

"Oh my god." He whispered, shoving at image of herself back, from the outside. One of her eyes were his colour, amber and molten gold.

"What's going on?" Mike sounded anxious, she looked at him, and he went white. "Eleven?"

"Yep, perfectly alright." She retreated from his mind, and both of them wincing, a sudden rush of pain in their bodies and minds, like the worst headache in the world, ears ringing. She blinked the gold from her eyes, blood on her upper lip, and on Stan's. "Just trying something." Stan was clutching his chest, blinking back tears.

"We were in each other's minds." He said faintly, touching the blood under his nose. "I could see into her, everything in her head." He glanced at Richie, she knew he had felt the red-hot affection, the protective ownership she had over him now. When he looked at Bev, he went dark red, just like her. She felt weird about Richie now too, after feeling the bubble of burning love Stan felt for him, it was confusing.

"I can't do it with anyone else, I'm going to try with Will and Richie, because they shine, but I've been connected to you since the diner, Stan. It might not work." He looked at her, and the pain felt slightly less overwhelming, more manageable. "Strange." She said quietly. "Very strange."

"Yeah, it was." He looked at Bev again, entirely too red, almost guilty. "Very strange."

"What did you mean to call us over for? Sorry I distracted you, I just had to try." Stan shook his head, and the pain flared again, her face twisted, agony cutting through her.

"_IT_ keeps sh-showing up to members of the Party, never just the L-Losers Club. What if it isn't after us th-this time? Not r-r-really, anyway. Maybe it needs f-fresh m-m-meat." Bill spoke, a skipping record, and El frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe it's trying to kill us, but it might need more strength to build up a new body under Hawkins. More scars." Eddie looked pointedly at Mike Wheeler's hand. "It's not strong enough, not yet anyway. It's counting on the Upside Down to hurt you, and _IT_ won't let you heal once you're injured. Not ever." El looked around at her friends faces, meeting Joyce's eyes. She looked terrified, and confused.

"What do you mean they won't heal?" Eddie swallowed hard, his dark eyes shining, the cast on his arm, _loVer_, with a bloody handprint on the white. Richie was the one who spoke, unbuttoning the uniform even lower, revealing thick, blood red gashes across his chest, claw marks, like he'd been mauled. His black eyes, so much like Mike's, ringed with violent shadows, his pale face sprinkled with freckles and vivid scars.

"This cut is four years old, Mrs. Byers. Eddies arm has been broken for years, Bill still has cuts and scrapes on his skin from when Georgie was alive. Once _IT_ hurts you, you never get better, it's been draining us, the energy our body puts toward healing our wounds goes toward healing _IT_ instead. If something happens, and we don't kill _IT_, it'll never go away, never get better." He buttoned his shirt back up to the collar with cut up fingertips, scarred over and icy to the touch. "You'll be stuck like that forever." Joyce's eyes landed on the bloody bandages wrapped around Mike's hand, the scrape cutting across her son's arm. She stiffened.

"So what do we do?"

"We kill _IT_. That's all we can do, that's the only way to heal." Mike pressed his thumb into his bandage idly, and his pain, like Stan's, reached out to her. She flinched.

"Stop that." He looked up at her, and pain flooded her body, she reached outward, grasping for his mind.

Nothing. Radio silence.

"It didn't work." She glanced at Stan, and his thoughts ran with hers like an undercurrent, connected so intimately now, braided together in long, thick plaits. "Why is it you?"

"I don't know." She showed it to Stan, wordless, his eye flickering brown. The feeling, how it felt when the pain rushed into her, when Mike's pain rushed into her. It was different from Stan's, the memories stained differently. Stan was a pale blue, Mike was a burnt orange, the colours stabbing through her like neon, like poison. Stan's pain was far more intense at times, darkening to navy, and breaking her bones, forcing her heart into a painful double-beat, her veins aching, her arms burning with a dull, eternal note of agony. Mike's was fleeting, touch and go, still grabbing for her with harsh hands. Exchanging memories was easy, he gave her one next, of Richie rooting through his mind, his memories.

"_Try?" _His thoughts whispered, she steadied herself, and they reached out in unison. Only El got in, her connection to Stan abruptly severed.

It was mayhem, inside Richie's mind. His thoughts seemed lightning fast, soaked in soft curses and tiny observations, noticing everything and nothing all at once. The way light caught in Stan's hair, the wavering lightbulb in the corner, a scar on the edge of Lucas' thumb, the untouched food set out for Stan, the vodka on the coffee table, the Russian, smiling with thin lips. A memory flashing through his mind when he saw a dust mote, Stan in his bedroom with unfamiliar music playing, he had yellow corduroy trousers on, fingertips in his hair, a feeling of warmth spread through her chest, and she knew it came from him. His eyes were strange, one of them his familiar dark black, the other a mess of colour, half brown. She felt him in her mind, wandering halls of an endless museum, taking his time, getting lost in the labyrinth under her skin.

"This is absolutely fucked. This is so bizarre." His voice broke the lines of spun sugar between them, shattered them with a shaky breath, he had blood under his nose. They were both bleeding. "I'm- you're inside my mind? I'm inside your mind?"

"Bitchin'." She muttered.

"Bitchin'." The Party echoed in quiet voices, the memory caught by Richie's thoughts, pulling it to the forefront of their shared minds. Kali, her sister, her dark skin and her warm eyes, the _steady weight of her at her side, the warmth. Find your anger, Jane. If you find your pain, you find your power._ The spiky punks in the warehouse, her reflection, hair slicked back, eyeliner on, finally more than her father's daughter, finally something strong. Kali's voice, cold as ice, hard as steel. _If you want to show mercy, that's your choice. But don't you ever take away mine. Ever._

_Bitchin'._

"Holy shit," Richie was staggering back, wiping at the blood on his lip, staring at her. "You didn't tell me you had a sister, she seems like... a lot."

"Number eight." Purple hair and blue butterflies, spiders crawling up Axel's arm, a knife. "I don't know where she is now, she used to live in an abandoned warehouse in Chicago with the gang, but, she's killing the bad men. She could be anywhere." Richie frowned, rubbing at his arm absently.

"She couldn't help us, then?" The idea hadn't even occurred to her, the immediate revulsion made her head spin.

"I will not drag anyone else into this, especially not her. She goes too far." She looked up, and Mike was staring.

"Kali?" She nodded. "Illusion, right? You see what she wants you to see, anything. You said she used it, made that boy see spiders when he tried to kill you because spiders are his worst fear. That sounds pretty familiar, El."

"She's my sister, Mike." Kali would never do something like this, never hurt them like this, hurt her.

"She's violent, El-"

"She is my sister." She tried to keep her voice steady. Firm, swallowing a scream of anger. "She goes too far, but she would never hurt us. We aren't like them! She hurts bad people, people that deserve it." They had had this argument a thousand times, his furious glares and biting words, every time El defended her.

"She can't be judge, jury, and executioner. It isn't right, it isn't a good thing, what she's doing-" His dark eyes, pouring into hers, black and hard and so intense against his red cheeks. She couldn't look at him now, Richie was flipping through her memories like a picture book, angry Mike, with his hands in fists and his eyes on fire. Sad Mike, with his furious tears, lips parted and soft, always embarrassed to cry in front of her. Happy Mike, with his freckled skin and his wide smiles and his snorting laugh, something Richie would probably never see in person. Her boy was guarded, slow to trust and slower to love, he had only just started speaking to Max, and it had been a year since she'd unofficially joined the Party, he was an asshole. An idiot.

"But she isn't evil, why are you so determined to hate her?" He scoffed, cheeks burning red, jaw tense.

"I don't hate her, I just don't trust her." Anger shot through her, a laugh bubbling to her lips.

"Oh, that's new, Mike Wheeler not trusting someone! Haven't seen that before." She rolled her eyes. "Whatever, Mike. I don't care, I'm leaving her alone, just what you wanted. To control me." She severed the connection, ignoring Richie's soft curses, his staggering steps and watery eyes. She felt her power vibrating around her, thick and heavy, ozone on her tongue, electricity. She knew Will could feel it too, she bit her lip, and stormed into the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind her without her touching it.

This was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, so sorry about the wait, i have about 3K written for the next chapter rn, it’ll be mike wheeler pov again, bcs i really like writing him and richie interacting tbh, it’s the only reason i wrote an it/st crossover in the first place. mike is easy to write for because he’s a bossy bitch
> 
> the Richie/Stan stuff is not very intense yet in this fic but i wrote so many oneshots so if u want some quality smut/fluff/angst, validate me and read them or whatever. i say it’s a oneshot but i add plot to fucking everything so they technically have an arc but whatever we don’t worry about that here at Disaster Lesbian Inc. 
> 
> let me know if you enjoyed it! comments literally make my day, kudos do too :) Thank You so much for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know your thoughts! Comments are appreciated, it’s my first time writing for these fandoms :)


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